


Magic is Rarely the Solution

by Jade_Dragoness



Category: Royal Pains
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Healers, M/M, Small Fandom Big Bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-16
Updated: 2014-04-16
Packaged: 2018-01-19 11:57:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 33,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1468660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jade_Dragoness/pseuds/Jade_Dragoness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Powered AU – The power of a Healer had always been more of curse than a blessing. Hank has always tried to walk the line of being of Healing Crafter and a doctor without suffering the consequences of his power.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [MistressKat](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressKat/pseuds/MistressKat) (kat_lair) for the graphics. The master post for the art on AO3 is [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1475419). If you like the art please stop by and give kudos.
> 
>  
> 
> They made me gleeful.
> 
>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> art by kat_lair

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/JadeDragoness/media/Magic%20is%20Rarely%20the%20Solution/Cover1.jpg.html)

 

*-*-*-*

“Again, explain to us why you didn't use your healing powers on Mr. Gardner, Doctor Lawson? You can't deny that it would have saved his life.”

Hank stiffened before the Board of Directors to Brooklyn Mercy Hospital. He held back his irritation and forced himself to respond as politely as he could considering that this interrogation was going onto the second hour since he had been asked to appear before them. He had maintained a civil tone only to face judgment and censure in return and his patience to deal with it was waning.

“There was no reason for me to use my Healing Craft,” Hank repeated, for what felt like the hundredth time. “When I left the operating room, Mr. Gardner was stable so I made the choice to help another patient. Mr. Gardner's complications were unexpected and there was no guarantee that he would have pulled through if I had remained with him,” Hank continued evenly, resisting the urge to grit his teeth at skeptical looks he was being given. “And, no matter what happened, I have the right to decide whether or not to use my Craft and I may not have chosen to use it.”

The expressions on the faces of most of Board of Directors soured further at the reminder of Hank's legal protection. Yet the way they looked at Hank told him as clear as words where this meeting was headed. When he'd been called in he had suspected it wouldn't end well for him but he'd hoped he would be able to get them to see reason. He'd done nothing wrong. 

But, now as Hank stood before the board, he couldn't help but feel a heavy sense dread settling in his guts as he became more and more certain that he wouldn't be leaving with his job. For a long moment Hank was sick with despair, until anger sparked inside him. His craft-senses roiled around him in a field of energy until Hank forced it back under control, cooling his anger, but not his outrage.

He had _saved_ a life. Maybe not the life whom had the most money and power but it was a life worth as much as that of Mr. Gardner. It was a life which had needed him most, and who'd had a much right to live as a billionaire. But from the way these men and women were looking at him, it was clear that they didn't share in his opinion. Bitterly, Hank wondered if they would have felt the same if it had been one of their loved ones he had helped instead of devoting his attention to Mr. Gardner, because he rather doubted it. The hypocrisy... it was too much. 

“You're a very good doctor, Healer Lawson. But there are many good doctors in New York, hundreds in fact, who can do the same work that you seem to prefer. But there aren't many Healer-rated Crafters like you, especially not ones that are as skillful as you are and willing to bend their skills to human patients. But if you are unwilling to use your Craft on your patients then we see little need for your services. And I doubt that any hospital in the country would accept a Healer who lets their patients die.”

“I saved a kid's life,” Hank reminded them, but the hospital board looked back at him with pitiless faces and cool eyes. The couple which looked sympathetic looked away, unwilling to say anything and go against the majority. Hank swallowed down the urge to shout that they couldn't just to this. That they couldn't just rip his life apart because one patient faced unexpected complications. Losing a patient was a risk that every doctor took. They couldn't just punish him because the man had been hospital benefactor. 

But they had already made up their minds. 

Instead, Hank raised his chin and took, without flinching, the loss of his calling, his livelihood, the way of expressing his passion for medicinal care which he lived and breathed each day. 

Hank fell apart when he got home. 

*-*-*-*

Hank couldn't find a job.

He must have talked to the administrator of every trauma center on the East coast.

No level 01 trauma center in the country wanted a Healer on their staff that had the reputation of being unwilling to use their Craft even if he was a doctor. None of the administrators seemed to care that the law stood behind Hank. Everyone expected a Crafter with healing powers to have a miracle cure, to _be_ the miracle cure, even though every time a Healing Crafter used their power to heal another human being it cost them something in return. This was the reason why, by federal law, no Crafter could be forced to use their crafting powers, even if another person's life was on the line.

It had to be the Crafter's choice.

Yet he kept being told that there were no positions available. They simply weren't hiring.

What really got on Hank's nerves –needling his pride– was that no one seemed to care that he was a doctor, first and foremost. Hank didn't just have a Healing certification. He also had a medical degree, that he spent years working to acquire to be more than just a Healer, to be able to help his patients to the absolute best of all his abilities. He didn't need to use his Healing Craft on his patients to give them the best possible care, but no hospital administrator he talked to seemed to be concerned about that. They wanted the prestige of having a Healing Crafter on staff. They wanted a doctor that would keep their rich benefactors alive. Someone who they could trot to draw attention and money to their hospital which was always something that Hank refused to participate in. But even if he'd been willing to bend on that self-imposed rule –which he wouldn't– no administrator wanted to hire someone who was viewed as responsible for the loss of a hospital billionaire trustee.

Also Hank suspected, although he had no proof, that the Gardner family was spreading the word that they would pull donations from any hospital who hired him. It was the only explanation which Hank could think up for why even understaffed, overworked hospitals who had initially had been interested were then turning around and refusing to accept his phone calls when he tried to contact them again.

And as if being unemployed wasn't enough of a stress, there were the reporters who kept calling Hank at all hours. A Healer being involved in a death usually made the news somewhere, and when it came to someone of Gardner's wealth and standing, it generated even more interest with the media. Hank ignored them, avoiding all phone calls and emails requesting an interview because he'd never been the kind of guy who liked the spotlight (nor had he quite gotten over that phobia of public speaking which really made him break out in a sweat at the thought of being put before a TV camera). When the phone calls continued long past when Hank thought that any interest from the reporters should have faded away, he knew he could blame the Gardners for that too. Although the calls from Crafter rights groups who wanted to hear his side of the story probably couldn't be laid on their door. Probably.

Hank also ignored those calls. If there was a political storm building around his life, Hank wanted no part of it. Hank wasn't particular fond of workplace politics and avoided them whenever possible, actual politics would probably make him break out on hives if he got involved.

All Hank wanted to do was be a doctor.

The most unusual thing to arrive during the torrent of interest he was getting was an invitation to a party being held in the Hamptons by a Boris Kuester von Jurges-Ratenicz for Labor Day weekend, it even requested he RSVP. Hank thought it was a joke at best, and something trying to drum up attention by having the recent media pariah show up at their party, at worst, so he ignored like he did with all correspondence that had nothing to do with a hospital. Hank would've thrown it out, but he hadn't taken out the trash for nearly two weeks so all his mail was building up in a messy bound of white envelopes and local adverts on the counter-tops. 

Frankly, Hank had other concerns than the mail. Like the way his relationship with Nikki, his fiancee had been steadily disintegrating over the past month like its foundation had been built on nothing more than spun sugar. Hank tried to act like everything was normal but being under the media scrutiny brought it all home and he couldn't ignore how strained and _angry_ their interactions had become. 

“My family can't afford to be connected with a scandal, Hank,” Nikki exclaimed. This was only the third time she had stopped by Hank's apartment since he had been fired. It had been nearly a month. “If only you would do something about it, Hank! Talk to those reporters! Get your side of the story out there.”

“No, I'm not going to turn by life into a media circus,” Hank said, annoyed.

Their conversation had devolved into an argument, and Hank had broken up the relationship in a fit of anger and frustration at her lack of understanding over something that mattered so much to him. She'd left with the engagement ring he'd given her, slamming the door behind her.

Ultimately, Hank couldn't find it in himself to regret ending their engagement.

Yet afterward, Hank gave up on finding job anytime soon and everything grew worse. The Gardners filed a civil suit against him and the lawyer he had hired was costing an arm, a leg and a kidney. And while the lawyer was doing a great job of keeping the Gardners from utterly ruining him, every day Hank fell deeper and deeper into debt as his bank accounts dwindled and various bills came due.

Hank spent more than a few nights just staring blankly at the emptying walls of his apartment, wondering how in the world could he go from being on top of the world with his future laid out before him like a smooth and shinning path, only for him to get so hopelessly lost between one second and the next. Hank would be the first to admit, if there had been anyone to ask him, that he fell into depressive funk. He stopped reaching out. He ate whatever was in the kitchen without bothering to restock until he lived solely on pizza. Hank barely moved from the front of his TV even as his stuff was repossessed.

His life _sucked_ and then Evan showed up.

*-*-*-*

“Hank, Hank, you can't keep doing this to yourself,” Evan called out, as he messed around with something in the kitchen. Hank heard the sounds of opening then closing cupboards and the rattle of drawers as Evan muttered unintelligible words under his breath. Hank drank down another gulp from his beer bottle and pointedly ignored him. He loved his little brother, no matter how annoying he could get, but Hank wasn't in any kind of mood to deal with Evan's usual brand of dramatics.

“How can you not have food?” Evan asked, incredulous. He popped his head around the door-frame to stare at Hank with huge blue eyes. “Please, please tell me you haven't been surviving only on take-out since the breakup.”

“This is New York, everyone survives on take-out,” Hank grunted. Confused, he frowned at the TV. “Wait. How did you know about that?” Hank had been keeping quiet about the dissolution of his engagement to Nikki. He had enough of pity and he was sick of it, any more and... well, and not even his Healer Craft would be able to help him with the nausea. Even now his stomach churned... although it could be the fact that his breakfast and lunch had so far been beer, day old pizza and yet more beer.

Evan walked over the him, a handful of envelopes in his hands. “She updated her Facebook status,” Evan explained, his expression sympathetic. “You could have told me, you know. I'm always on your side,” he added in a hurt tone.

Hank sighed heavily. “I know, I know... thanks.” Hank eyed the stack of mail in his brother's hand. He hadn't bothered to sort thorough it as almost every single envelope was a bill, anyway, his more important correspondence came through email. Evan cradled them in his hands as he sat next to Hank on the floor. Most of the furniture had been repossessed. The last time Hank had such a bare apartment had been his first apartment after college. It was a depressing sight which is why he tried to let the TV keep all of his attention.

“You want to talk about Nikki?”

“No,” Hank grunted. 

“Yeah, okay,” Evan sighed, then he frowned down at the envelopes. “Have been you ignoring your bills? You know that's not good for your credit score, Hank!” He flipped through the stack until he came across the party invitation. “What's this?” Evan asked, fascinated by the fancy script and thickness of the paper. Hank ignored the rustling of paper until Evan shouted, “Oh my god!” 

Hank jumped, startled. Beer spilled all over his hands and onto his white under shirt. “What? Damn it, Evan.”

Evan grabbed his brother by the right shoulder as he frantically waved the invitation in his left hand right before Hank's face. He narrowly missed smacking Hank's nose with it. “Do you know what this is?”

Hank grimaced and wiped his beer wet hand on Evan's shirt. Evan didn't even flinch, his eyes were bright and he was grinning fit to crack his cheeks under the force of his smile.

“Yeah,” Hank said dryly. “That came in while I was still reading my mail.” Hank pretty much gave up on reading when it was all bills and rejection letters. Around the point where he stopped looking for work was when he gave up on even bothering to open them.

“It's an invitation to a party in the Hamptons! The Hamptons, Hank,” Evan said, loudly.

“I'm right here, you don't have to yell,” Hank protested and shoved his brother away.

“Please, _please_ , tell me you've RSVPd, already?” Evan begged, clasping the invitation between his hands as he pressed his palms together in supplication.

Hank was disturbed by how big Evan's eyes looked as he pleaded. He grimaced. “No, because I'm not going,” Hank said, looking back to the TV where Field Of Dreams continued to play so he could avoid Evan's puppy dog eyes.

Evan grabbed the remote control from where it was resting on the floor and paused the movie. “Yes, yes you are. This is perfect. You've need something to get you out of your slump. This is it!”

“I'm fine,” Hank protested, scowling at his brother as he tried to snatch back the remote. Evan leaned away from him and raised the remote over his head and out of Hank's reach. 

Evan gave him a sardonic look and pointedly glanced around the empty apartment which was bare of furniture and had a small tower of the pizza boxes stacked in one corner. There were so many empty beer bottles rolling on the laminate floor that it would only take another two or three to turn the living floor into a serious safety hazard.

It was a pathetic and depressing sight... but it was all Hank had.

“No,” Hank insisted firmly, digging in his heels.

*-*-*-*

Okay, so his little brother had been right. Hank had been initially skeptical about letting Evan drag him off to a party held all the way in the Hamptons, much less to one hosted by some rich guy that he didn't know. Yet Hank _had_ been wallowing in the ruins of his life, letting it drag him down so much that he hadn't been able to even motivate himself to get food that wasn't delivered to his door. Evan's unstoppable enthusiasm (and pestering little brother super-power which Hank would swear was powerful enough to taken down a Smith Crafter) had forced Hank into taking a shower, dressing in clean clothing that wasn't an undershirt and boxers, and got him into the sun. 

Which, Hank had realized as he had driven his convertible to the Hamptons with the wind tugged at his hair, had been far too long since he last got a good dose of sunshine and fresh air. Just the drive had made him feel better. His brother had convinced him that it would be good for him to forget about all his problems for at least one weekend. After all Hank's wreck of a life would still be there when he got back. Hank had grudgingly agreed. He might as well enjoy spending time with Evan without it hanging over him. So now that Hank was at the Hamptons he couldn't help but think that Evan probably had the right idea all along. Not that he would ever tell his little brother that, of course, since Evan would never let him live it down. 

But Hank had needed to get out his apartment, although he hadn't really thought this kind of party would be where he would end up.

The DJ bounced along with the percussive beat pounding out of the concert large speakers. Every room which Hank had seen was full of dancing people. Hank glanced around the party, noting with quiet appreciation the skewed ratio of beautiful women to men, with the women outnumbering the men something like four to one. Something that was, no doubt, sending Evan into paroxysms of joy. Hank almost felt sorry for the unsuspecting women about to be forced to deal with his brother, but better them than him. Hank loved his brother but he had already been stuck with Evan for hours in the car. He needed a break.

Hank also kept sharp eye on the security guards stationed throughout the house and the grounds who were dressed in somber black suits and wore radio earpieces. For a party there was quite a lot of security and they were armed with more than just guns, there were also several Crafters among them which made Hank more alert than usual. Hank didn't often use his powers to sense the presence of other Crafters, as he thought it was a rather rude thing to do since there were some Crafters who couldn't do the same. And then there were those that ignored their Crafting ability and didn't like to be reminded that they had it because although Crafting Rights had improved remarkably over the past 100 years, there were still people who were prejudiced about Craft power. The accusation of 'witchcraft' still lingered, even in the name however much it had been sanitized over the decades. Yet the sheer number of Crafters which Hank could feel at the party, their combined power thrumming the air with their energy like the low hum of exposed electrical wire made him rather curious. The last time Hank sensed so many Crafters in one place there had been during a Crafting convention which had been held in the city. He certainly had a learning experience about sensing fellow Crafters when he ended up in a subway train half-way full of them.

Mostly, Hank sensed Shifters and while Shift Crafters were a lot more common than Healers, he had never run into a situation where he could feel fifteen of them, all in one place. And they weren't the only one type of Crafter around, Hank also felt the distant present of an Elemental.

To hire so many Crafters... to need that kind of manpower a person had to be really wealthy, and either very paranoid or facing a lot of all too real threats against their life.

Hank had once heard a news broadcaster describe one Shifter as being the equivalent of ten trained soliders in a fight. Which wasn't too far off the mark since a good Shifter, whose power gave them excellent control of every party of their bodies, could do amazing things. They had increased strength, speed, could call forth claws and fangs, had increased endurance, and even –if they were really good– an accelerated ability to heal their wounds. And then there were the Elementals, who with their ability to Craft the inorganic matter of their surroundings were the equivalent of an army squad _and_ their artillery.

Anyone that felt that they needed what amounted to a small army of super-soldiers and a living weapon wasn't living a peaceful or restful life. And here Hank was thinking his life was bad. Talk about giving him some perspective. At least, all his threats were financial in origin and no one was actively endangering his life.

One of the beautiful women of the party approached Hank with a smile on her face and a champagne flute in her hand. Her dark hair shone under the lights, glossy and strong. The smile on her shimmering red lips deepened as she saw Hank notice her approach.

“Hi, I just had to come over to tell you that I love your shirt,” she said softly, looking at him through her long sooty eyelashes, brightened with an eyeshadow that brought out the bright green of her eyes.

Hank smiled back. “Thanks!” he said cheerfully. “It's from Costco.” He had to resist a laugh at her bewildered expression.

Every conversation throughout the night began just as banally. The only amusement Hank got out of the party was, after he told the women about his shirt and his terrible current circumstances (having been fired and in debt up to his eyeballs), was how they tried to find a way to escape the conversation as politely and as quickly as they could. He gave them points for the most graceful and natural exit. Those who just turned around and walked away the moment they realized they wouldn't be able to get anything out of him, made him laugh. _And_ they earned zero marks across the board.

Oh, Hank knew that he didn't have to share anything about his current problems and it probably would have been easier on his ego to lie to those women. But, unlike Evan, who had made a beeline for the biggest group of women as soon as they had made it past the front doors of the mansion, Hank wasn't looking for relationship at the moment, and even less for a one night stand. He had never been able to do casual relationships in his life and he hardly expected to start up now. No matter how much Evan insisted it would be perfect cure for broken heart. If Hank heard one more comment about fishes in the sea...

Still, however much entertainment Hank had been having with the other guests, he was grateful when he heard the urgent call for a doctor as it broke the latest awkward conversation he was having with yet another beautiful woman. He stepped away to answer, not bothering to look back as she let out a long sigh of deep relief.

Instead, Hank focused on finding whoever it was who needed his help.

*-*-*-*

Hank hadn't expected to have to save a life nor did he expect to actually come face to face with his host. He had been at the party for the better part of two hours without running into the man, so he thought he would get through the next hour before he slipped away (leaving Evan to enjoy himself) without ever meeting Boris Kuester von Jurges-Ratenicz.

At least, April was alright and recovering as far as his craft-senses had been able to tell him. No thanks to Boris (considering he'd never introduced himself Hank was guessing he was Boris Kuester von Jurges-Ratenicz) and his insistence on no ambulance and no cops.

Speaking of his host, Hank been asked to meet the man in his office. He had followed another man wearing eyeglasses, who had politely requested that Hank follow him after Hank had settled April into one of the mansion's bedrooms. The personal assistant, who never did give Hank his name, led him to a door that was guarded by two bulky Shifters. As Hank walked by them he sensed them use their Craft to make their ears grow longer, until they resembled bat ears, furling outwards before they swiveled back and forth tracking sounds far beyond the limit of human hearing. Hank pulled his craft-senses back into himself before they caught on that he was scanning them. Shifters' craft-senses may be the weakest of all Crafters, but that didn't mean they were morons.

“Do you always keep a detox kit around for the occasional OD?” Hank asked dryly, as the personal assistant left him alone with a man Hank was now pretty certain was Boris Kuester von Jurges-Ratenicz. Really, the German accent would have been a dead give away even if Hank hadn't already seen various people jumping to obey him.

“For the personal protection of my guests,” Boris said lightly.

“For the protection of your privacy,” Hank corrected, not bothering to keep his disdain from showing. He didn't have much respect for people who held such little value for the lives of others. “So I take it you're Boris.”

“Boris Kuester von Jurges-Ratenicz.” He held out his hand and Hank took in on reflex, shaking it firmly. “You're be informal about it too, no?”

Hank had to agree with a huff of amusement. “I'm Hank.”

“Hank,” Boris said slowly. He elongated Hank's name as if he was tasting it. As if the name was unique and he had never run into it before yet he also found it to his liking. “Have a seat, Hank,” he said as he turned to stand behind the single desk in the office. “In all honestly, I wasn't expecting to see you tonight. You never responded to R.S.V.P your invitation.”

“I wasn't planning on showing up,” Hank admitted stiffly, not bothering to sit down.

“I'm delighted that didn't turn out to be the case,” Boris said. “I had been looking forward to making your acquaintance.”

Hank blinked, feeling a little apprehensive as to why the man was interested in him. He still didn't know why he'd been invited to the party in the first place especially now that his initial suspicions about why he'd been invited hadn't panned out. But he did have one guess.

It always seemed to come down to his Healing Craft.

Instinctively, Hank nearly reached out to Boris with his craft-senses, but reigned himself in at the last instant before he touched the other man with his power. Just because his Healing Craft gave him intimate knowledge and understanding of another human being to the point that Hank could discern most emotions from reading the biological changes which a human body underwent when feeling anger, or sadness or any other strong emotion, it didn't mean that Hank should use his power whenever curiosity struck him. But most importantly he wasn't the man's doctor. It would be a violation of Boris' civil rights, as well as several oaths Hank had sworn upon being Healing Craft certified, for Hank to scan him deeply enough to read what Boris was feeling without his expressed permission. 

Surface scans, on the other hand, were inevitable with Healing Craft. So much so that in the 1970s the Supreme Court had ruled that such light scans did not violate personal privacy. It was the equivalent of a non-crafter being able to read body language. Yet Hank kept all of his power reigned in under tight control not wanting to risk even the possibility of a light scan. He had enough legal trouble to last him a lifetime.

“Although I am curious as to why you didn't use your Healing Craft on April,” Boris continued.

Hank stiffened. “I would have. If you didn't have the antidote, or if you continued to refuse to call an ambulance. You really should have let me call them.” Now, he couldn't help but wonder if Boris' insistence of no paramedics didn't also have partially to do with forcing Hank to use his Craft. The man hadn't made a mention of it before, but he clearly knew who and what Hank was even though Hank hadn't given him a last name, much less admitted he was anything more than a doctor.

“Life isn't always simple.”

“Well, death is,” Hank shot back.

They stared at each other, neither willing to back down.

“Sit down, Hank,” Boris said after a moment, gesturing toward the seat across he desk. His tone didn't make it a request. Some of Hank's indignation on being ordered must have shown on his face because Boris' tone gentled as he added, “Please.”

Grudgingly admitting to himself that he had no reason not to, Hank sat on the chair. Hank resisting the urge to shift on it as it was an uncomfortably angled red chair. Idly he wondered if Boris had chosen it for that particular trait or if was chosen because it was fashionable. Probably both, if the intelligence that Hank could see in Boris' blue eyes was any kind of indicator. Hank never had patience for that sort of manipulative grandstanding. He preferred to be more straight forward when dealing with people.

Hank was growing more and more irritated by the minute. 

“There are not many doctors named Hank who have been recently fired from their positions, much less one who I've invited to visit my home,” Boris explained. After a beat he added, “Healer Lawson.”

“I really prefer Hank.”

Boris kept looking at him with an evaluating gaze. The pressure of his interest was like a weight against Hank's skin. “You are unexpected, Hank. I thought I had met every Healer on the continent who was certified for human Crafting. Healers are not such a common power that you would have been overlooked. You can understand my surprise when I learned that I had missed meeting you.”

“I'm a doctor first,” Hank explained, wishing that the conversation was over. “When I signed my contract with the hospital I made certain that they couldn't capitalize on my Craft.” And hadn't they been irritated after a while when they wanted to renegotiate that particular hurdle in exploiting Hank's power and he refused to budge. Maybe he should have seen it then how much the administrators didn't take care of their doctors and how badly suited Hank was to Brooklyn Mercy.

“Is that why you chose not to use your Craft on April, Hank?” Boris asked, leaning forward. “You could have saved her life without the antidote, easily enough.”

“I didn't use it because I didn't need to,” Hank sighed. “If your doctor had treated her for drug overdose, I would have used my Craft then because he would've killed her. If your guards hadn't had the antidote, I would have used it to monitor her until the ambulance arrived. But only if I had no other choice. I use my Craft as a last resort.” Hank narrowed his eyes. “Why do do you want to know?”

“You intrigue me, Hank,” Boris said thoughtfully. “I have never met a Healer who also had a medical degree before.”

“There are a couple around,” Hank said, warily. “They chose to go into research and never actually have human patients.” 

“Most Healers don't survive their late twenties,” Boris said. “Much less medical school.”

Hank looked away.

That was the ugly truth of the Healing Craft which people didn't like to talk about. Healers, unlike practically every other Crafter or Talent, payed a steep price for their skill. Because they could mold and force biological matter of animals and people they paid a price for their ability in the form of their own energy. Living energy was needed to Craft living matter. Gardeners had a similar power, but as they dealt solely with plants, they rarely exhausted themselves the way a Healer could, entirely too easily. 

The most important skill which a Healing Crafter had to learn was when to _not _to use their power, because it was all too easy to pour out their energy into their patients until nothing was left for them. It was practically hardwired into Healers to heal, to repair bodies, to help their patient survive at all costs. More than half of Healers who practiced their Craft on human patients died of heart failure, before they hit their mid-30s, while leaving behind corpses which were considered perfectly healthy by every medical examiner who conducted the autopsy. That's why, on average, Healers went into veterinary medicine, or research, or ignored their Craft altogether. Healers were as common as Elementals but their Craft made them downright rare since their power killed so many that only a handful made it past their first decade since the day their Craft started manifesting.__

Which was why by federal law, Hank had the right to decide when or even _if_ he was going to use his Craft. Healers couldn't be prosecuted for not using their ability, although the public didn't often react with the same understanding when lives were lost. The Gardner's lawsuit against him had to focus solely on a malpractice claim due to Hank being a doctor. Sometimes the knowledge that if he had been only a Healer, and not a doctor at all, he would have been safe from being sued made Hank want to break something... or drink himself into a stupor. 

When Hank's crafting power had first started emerging, he'd had to make the decision of what he would do with it. By then he had already known he wanted to be a doctor, the loss of his mother had set him on that path even before he'd manifested at 17. But when Hank had come into his power he'd had to decided if he wanted to exercise it, or if he was going to ignore it and become a doctor without any kind of crafting ability. 

Hank had almost done it. He'd almost set his power aside, mostly because of his brother. Evan had been terrified when Hank had come into his Craft and had begged and begged Hank to turn away from it, to let it lie fallow until it withered away from disuse. His little brother had cried every night for a week, certain that Hank would die if he left his sight. Evan had refused to sleep any other place than in Hank's bed for over a month and for several years afterward he didn't come to Hank whenever he'd been hurt out of fear that Hank would use his craft to heal him and then Hank would be that much closer to death, even when Hank explained that crafting power didn't work that way. 

__It had been a difficult decision and more than once Hank had come close to ignoring his Healing Craft but in the end Hank had chosen the harder path. He'd decided to use his Craft while also becoming a doctor, trying his best to save lives without it costing it his own. Hank had made the choice knowing the consequences of embracing the Healing Craft when he would be surrounded by people who would desperately need it because he'd known his crafting power would be a tremendous benefit to his future patients._ _

__And there was no way he could face a patient without doing _everything_ he could to help them._ _

__Yet after all this time, Evan didn't like to be reminded of the average lifespan for a Healer even knowing that Hank preferred to use his practical medical skills over his Craft. Hank had long ago decided to never his brother know of the instances when he did end up having to push his crafting power to his limits, which happened even with Hank trying his best to avoid it. Emergency rooms saw the worst and vicious injuries and sometimes Hank's patients needed those few extra seconds of life that he could give them just to stabilize under standard medical care._ _

__But even with him being careful Hank believed that he'd only managed to live as long as he had was solely because of his Talent._ _

__Talents weren't like Crafters. Talents were small magical skills, and unlike Crafting, the power ran in families and were never so strong that the power draw threatened the life of the Talent holder. Also, Talents were pretty common, about a third of the population on the planet had a Talent power. And the powers of a Talent ranged from common abilities like minor kinetics to dowsers to incredibly rare skills, such as being able to breathe underwater or telepathy._ _

__Lawsons were dowsers. It was a finding power which Hank and Evan had inherited from their father. It had been the only thing of value Eddie had ever given them, as far as Hank was concerned. Evan's Talent was the ability to find metals, or 'treasure' as he liked to call it. Evan could walk onto a beach and walk out an hour later with a pocketful of loose change and lost jewelery. When he had been a kid, Evan had once found a couple hundred dollars worth of change over the course of summer in Jersey, which Hank suspected was what had sparked his lifelong love of making money._ _

__Hank's own Talent was more idiosyncratic. When he had a problem, he could look around and find a solution. He usually only used it to find a solution to a medical problem but it worked for even minor things like finding his car keys or the TV remote control when it got lost in the couch cushions. But his talent wasn't perfect, if there wasn't an immediate solution on hand his talent was useless. It couldn't make a solution just appear out of thin air. His talent could only bring it to Hank's attention by marking the solution in a faint white glow. But it had been enough of an advantage that Hank never had to relay solely on his Craft._ _

__“But questioning how you managed to be both a doctor and healer is not why I wished to meet with you,” Boris said as he stood up from behind his desk, walking around it to face Hank. Boris leaned back against the desk, resting his hip on the desktop, looking down at Hank as he said, “If I asked you to scan me with your Craft, would you do it?”_ _

__Hank got to his feet, briefly fighting the chair and ending up entirely too close to Boris. He was abruptly aware of the other man's body in a way that had nothing to do with his Craft. He had noticed before that Boris was a handsome man, but considering he had been focused on saving April's life at the time, the observation had been clinical. Now, with nothing to distract Hank, Boris' attractiveness hit him with the force of someone slamming a sledgehammer on the button to his libido, making entirely too aware that he'd gone from having sex on a regular basis to an abrupt dry spell over the last couple of weeks. Hank forced himself to ignore his own reactions and took a step away from Boris._ _

__“Is something wrong?” Hank asked in concern, instead of answering. He nearly reached out with his craft-senses, reigning himself at the last minute. Boris wasn't his patient. Actually, just by looking at him, Hank couldn't see anything immediately wrong with Boris. There were no obvious symptoms indicating the man was in poor health. His blue eyes were clear and tracking Hank without lag. There was no trembling in his hands or signs of sudden weight loss. He showed no obvious sign of illness. Boris looked to be perfectly healthy and incredibly fit. So either his illness was well masked, or hadn't yet expressed itself. “I'm not your doctor.”_ _

__“No. At least, not yet. Hank, I would like to hire you to be my personal physician,” Boris said, staring at Hank intently. His gaze was full of heavy interest which made the hairs on the back of Hank's neck stand on end. For a man who seemed to be only a non-crafter, with no sign of Talent which Hank could discern, Boris had an unmistakably charismatic presence. He stood with the certainty of man of power, albeit power of a sort that had nothing to do with manipulation magical energies. Boris had been watching him the same way practically from the moment he entered the room where Hank had been treating April. At the time Hank had dismissed the attention as mere concern over the woman's health, but now..._ _

__“Don't you already have one?” Hank asked, thinking of the doctor who nearly killed April by assuming she was a drug addict. Hank shook his head before Boris could respond. “Thank you for the offer, but I'm not planning on staying in the Hamptons. I'm only here for the weekend.” Hank turned around to head out of the office, but his growing concern made him pause before he ever took a step._ _

__Hank had never been able to reign in his drive to save people. The instinct to help was too deeply rooted in him to try to rip it out so late in his life (he thought he would have it even if he wasn't a Healer) he was hardly going to start with Boris. Hank hesitated briefly before turning around to face Boris. If there's something wrong with him and he just left... Hank would never forgive himself. “What's wrong?”_ _

__Boris got off the desk and took a step closer, holding out his hand. “You tell me, Hank.”_ _

__Frowning, Hank wondered if Boris was yanking his chain, although he could see no reason for it. He reached out and clasped the other man's hand. Having been given explicit permission, Hank called forth his power, the heat growing in his veins before curling outward, powering his extrasensory perceptions which were part of his gift, his Healing Craft._ _

__Hank stretched out his Craft, shaping it into a tendril of golden light and wrapping it around Boris wrist, following the circle of his thumb and forefinger. To mundane eyes, it would have looked like Boris was wearing one of those chemical glow-stick bracelets._ _

__To Hank's Craft eyes it looked like he had spread out a significant portion of his power so like looked like a membrane of energy covered Boris making him incandescence brightly from head to toe. For a second, Hank let his craft-senses hover over him before sinking into Boris._ _

__Hank scanned the man's skin, sifting through the various layers of dermal tissue and down to the muscle. He found nothing. He sunk further in, shifting into blood vessels which pulsed in a steady heartbeat. He found them strong and unobstructed. Hank followed the vessels to the heart which he carefully studied as pounded away without arrhythmia or blockage. He checked it three times before he was satisfied that there nothing was wrong before he moved on, tunneling through bones, past the hard calcium outer shell to the spongy marrow where master stem cells produced red blood cells, white blood cells and platelets. Hank scrutinized nerves, following their bright blue electrical signals towards the incredibly nuclear furnace of energy which was the human brain._ _

__Hank had be swift when looking at it while also being as thorough as he could manage. It was too easy for a Healer to lose him or herself in the complex structure of the human brain. It was too fascinating with its scintillating colors and its unmapped neural pathways. The brain held so many mysteries that even Healing Craft couldn't answer. Hank wasn't particularly religious, but he always thought that the radiance of a living human mind which he could see through his craft-senses had to echo the fires of creation with its sheer vibrancy, power and limitless potential._ _

__Even with his experience Hank had to forcibly tear himself away from Boris' brain when he found nothing wrong there either. Then Hank focused on the internal organs, checking through each one ticking them off in order of most important to least. In the lungs he found tobacco residue, of the sort that came from an occasional cigar smoker, but no cancerous cells._ _

__Hank found nothing obviously wrong with Boris._ _

__Except... if the whole of a human body could be described as a metaphorical symphony, it would be the most complicated symphony ever devised and played by the largest orchestra to ever exist. It would contain every single instrument known to mankind. Guitars, pianos, harps, trombones, cellos, flutes, drums of all kinds and every instrument forgotten with the passing of history as well as all yet to be invented._ _

__And somewhere in the ocean of music which made up Boris' body there was a player whose notes were sour, sending out ripples of nearly imperceptible disharmony._ _

__Floating amidst the universe of which was another human being, Hank considered the last time he'd felt a similar discordant thrum. He hesitated only for second, too driven by the need to diagnose Boris, to learn what was wrong so he could know how to _fix_ it and heal him. Hank narrowed his focus, driving his concentration into one cell. He bypassed the limpid cell wall and drifting past organelles until he came to the nucleus of the cell and the tightly coiled DNA with in. _ _

__There Hank could feel it. The sour note was coming from within the nucleus in Boris' DNA. Hank was drawn to it, the instincts of his Craft wanting to drive him forward but he forced himself away. It took all his willpower to ignore the disharmony as he pulled his awareness upwards and outwards... because even Healing Craft had it's limits._ _

__Human DNA was too much. While deceptively simply, it was made up of billions of DNA base pairs which would overwhelm him if he wasn't careful; it was the same reason why Healers didn't scan organs or tissue cell by cell. And while it was possible that Hank could change the DNA of one cell by forcing himself to the limits of his crafting power, it _would_ kill him to try to change every single one which made up a human body. _ _

__Hank didn't have that amount of power. No Healer did. It just wasn't part of his craft._ _

__Hank inhaled sharply as he pulled his awareness back into himself. He opened his eyes to find himself plastered to Boris' front and tucked under his chin. He was so close that his eyelashes brushed against Boris' throat. Hank could feel the buttons of his suit jacket pressing through own thin Costco shirt. Hank's hands were clamped firmly around Boris' wrists, not so tightly that he'd leave bruises, but hard enough that the man would have to fight to get free if he wanted to escape Hank's hold._ _

__Mortified, Hank jerked back, releasing Boris as if he was burning red-hot. He cleared his throat and then did it again. Uncomfortably, Hank said. “Um, sorry about that.” When he'd needed to deepen his scan his body must have moved closer to Boris. Not for the first time Hank was very, very glad that his Craft let him control his blush response._ _

__Something flashed across Boris' face, too quickly suppressed for Hank to get a read on. His craft-senses shivered, trying to reach out again driven by his curiosity, but Hank jerked himself another step away before his crafting power could touch Boris. He was a doctor not a voyeur to learn everything which Boris wanted to keep hidden._ _

__Boris said softly, “It's alright, Hank. I could see you were not aware of yourself.” Something dark and serious lurked within Boris' eyes. “What were you able to discover?”_ _

__“You have mutation, a gene in your DNA that has the potential to be harmful to you,” Hank said swallowing, remembering the discordant tone. If the mutation had been benign he wouldn't have heard any disharmony, and he wouldn't have been drawn so strongly to fix the mutation. His eyes ached, and he rubbed at them, knowing that it wasn't a real symptom from his body but a side-effect of his using his craft to _see_ so deeply into another person. _ _

__“Yes.” Boris closed his eyes for a second before he opened them again._ _

__This time Hank had no problem in reading the raw emotions which flooded Boris' face: relief, devastation, fear, and hope. All which were swiftly hidden behind another mask of calm control. Hank's chest ached at knowing he would have to snuff that hope because what was wrong with Boris was beyond his powers to fix. There wasn't any Healing Crafter who would be strong enough. Even a Smith, the strongest Crafting power around, wouldn't be able to do it._ _

__“Boris, there's nothing I can do. I'm not that kind of doctor, and Healing Craft can't do anything about genetic diseases,” Hank said sympathetically. Softer, he said, “I'm sorry.”_ _

__“I am aware of the limitations of the Healing Craft, Hank,” Boris agreed, but he kept looking at Hank with entirely too much intent. As if Hank had the solution, or was the answer to some question he'd been thinking about. “Still I would like to hire you to be my personal physician. I am fully aware of your history, including your current troubles with the Gardners. I am willing provide assistance to help you overcome them.”_ _

__Hank blinked in surprise, thrown by the offer of help. No one, other than his brother had offered to help him. But then no one had tried to use his problem with them to their advantage either. “Thank you,” Hank said, unable to help his dry tone. “But I'm taking care of that just fine on my own.” Hank's stomach chose that moment to growl sounding embarrassingly loud. Both of them glanced down to Hank's stomach._ _

__“My apologies, I'm fully aware of how Crafting can increase metabolism and I had forgotten to take that into consideration,” Boris said, after a second. “Join me for dinner, Hank.” Boris leaned closer. There was a heat in his eyes which made Hank's heartbeat speed up. “It would provide me the chance to try to talk you into my point of view, at the very least.”_ _

__Hank hesitated, and his stomach growled again, even louder than before. He had only been eating the canapes and these delicious dainty crunchy shrimp things which weren't exactly filling. The thought of driving around the Hamptons, which he didn't know very well, while trying to find an open place to eat on one of the biggest party weekends of the summer (as Evan had extolled at length when trying to convince Hank to go to the party) made him mentally wince and his stomach growl again, as if angry at the idea._ _

__Yet as tempted as he was to share a meal with Boris there was an invitation in his body language that had nothing to do with dinner. And as much as Hank found himself interested, he didn't think he was at the mental or emotional stage to do anything rash. Especially with someone who was offering him a job to be their doctor._ _

__“Thanks but I'll have to decline,” Hank said._ _

__After a moment, Boris nodded and sat back. “Dieter will show you the kitchen. Anthony will make you something to eat.”_ _

__Hank nodded his thanks and turned away._ _

__“And Hank...”_ _

__He turned his head to see Boris giving him an intense look with his blue eyes bright._ _

__“You are welcome to return to Shadow Pond at any time.”_ _

__*-*-*-*_ _

__Hank was not planning on staying in the Hamptons any further than the weekend. No matter how many of a paroxysms of joy Evan had over the gold bar which Boris had sneaked into the backseat of Hank's Turbo convertible. Or how charming and handsome the man had proved to be. Or how quickly Evan had joined Boris' side – traitor! – in insisting that moving away from Manhattan was the best thing that Hank could do at this point in his life._ _

__“He gave you a gold bar, Hank! A real gold bar! Do you have any idea how crazy my Talent is going at the feel of a real gold bar?” Evan whispered, barely managing to keep his voice down in his excitement._ _

__Hank popped his head from the bathroom where he was about to start brushing his teeth. “Yes, so you've told me a million times how much you love the gold bar. And before you ask, no, you can't marry it.” Hank said, not bother to lower his voice even as Evan hissed at him him and made frantic 'hush' motions as he looked around the hotel room with wide paranoid eyes. Exasperated, Hank rolled his eyes and ducked back into the bathroom to stand before the white vanity sink._ _

__“I'm just saying, that gold bar translates to enough cash to put you in the black for several months. And if this is the kind of money he's willing to pay you...”_ _

__“Not everything is about money, Evan. _And_ I'm pretty sure the gold is a one time sort of thing.” At least, Hank hoped so. Getting paid in gold bars was too ostentatious. And just plain ridiculous._ _

__“Yeah, okay, I kinda agree. Sorta. Okay, not really. I'm just saying, Hank. You've been looking for a job. And now one has landed at your feet. And is practically begging for you to take it.”_ _

__Hank grimaced at his reflection in the mirror, his traveling toothbrush sticking out the side._ _

__“Take it, Hank. It's begging for it. Take it hard.”_ _

__Hank spat out his mouthful of toothpaste and spun around to stab the foamy end of the brush at his brother. “Never say that again,” Hank said flatly. He rinsed out his mouth wishing it was as easy to scrub his brain. Why couldn't his healing craft work as brain bleach? Now that was a question he needed an answer for. Maybe if he knew which brain cells to burn out..._ _

__Evan said enthusiastically, “Don't you see how perfect this is? You'd have a job _and_ you'd get to live in the Hamptons!” Evan's voice became somber and quieter. “But more importantly, you wouldn't be risking your life in a hospital with a lot of patients.” _ _

__Hank came out of the bathroom, mentally agreeing that Evan had good points but unwilling to admit to them. Everything and everyone he knew was back in New York. It had been his home for so many years, even Evan was close enough to drop by for a visit every once in a while. The thought of just uprooting... well, the thought was rather discomforting. “But that's the thing, Evan. I didn't become a doctor to help one person. I want to help everyone I can. That's why I chose to work for a hospital in the first place.”_ _

__Evan stepped right up to Hank and grabbed his shoulders. “I know that, but Hank... you've got to give yourself some time to get back on your feet. No one says you have to stay with this job for the rest of your life.”_ _

__Hank snorted, remembering how quickly Boris' previous personal doctor had been dismissed. “Yeah, it doesn't exactly have job security.”_ _

__“But it would be perfect for the summer. Just long enough to earn some money and give yourself some breathing space until you found another job,” Evan said enthusiastically. “Just a week ago you were complaining about getting nagged by those Craft-rights groups. They won't be able to bug you if you're here. Give it a couple of months and I bet everyone would have forgotten about you.”_ _

__Which... was a really attractive idea. Between them, the media and the occasional hate mail from anti-Craft bigots, Hank could appreciate having a new place to live. Mind you, he'd thought he would be looking for another apartment in the city, not moving to a guest cottage in an estate which he was starting to suspect was bigger than the island of Manhattan._ _

__Hank sank flat on his bed, pressing his arm over his eyes. “I'll tell you what I told Boris: No.”_ _

__“Hank,” Evan whined. “Hank, come on. This is a great idea!”_ _

__He continued on, even when Hank tried to hide under his pillow and sincerely considered using his Craft to make himself temporary deaf._ _

__Giving up, Hank pulled off the pillow to glowered at his little brother. “Alright, enough. I'll think about it, Evan.”_ _

__Evan grinned._ _


	2. Chapter 2

So Hank thought about it. Well, as much as he could with Evan asking him every hour, since morning rolled around, if he'd made up his mind yet. The only respite Hank got from him was when April showed up at their hotel room. Hank was surprised when he found out that April was there to both to thank him for saving his life and to ask him out in equal measure. And as flattered as Hank was by that, he had to gently dissuade her, since he knew that what she was feeling was nothing more than Nightingale Syndrome. Yet ultimately, she was the one responsible for leading him to give Boris' job offer a try... well, inadvertently.

It wasn't exactly a leap of logic to figure out that Boris had been the one to tell her where he was staying. The realization then led Hank to suspect that Boris either had him followed or had somehow gotten his information from the hotel's management. Either possibility ticked Hank off. 

Which is why April showing up at his door led to Hank driving back to Shadow Pond to give Boris a piece of his mind. 

“Hank,” Boris greeted him as soon as he walked into the room where he was working.

Hank had been led to yet another office by Boris' personal assistant, Dieter. This office was a lot tamer than the first one Hank has seen. It was decorated in soothing cream, whites and golden wood. He could see why Boris preferred it, yet Hank's own mood was too annoyed to be lightened by the décor. 

Standing in front of Boris' desk, Hank crossed his arms over his chest and glared at him. “You told April where to find me,” he said tightly.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“She wanted to thank you in person, I could not deny her such an easy request,” Boris said, his eyes flickering as he took in Hank's body language. He straightened further.

“And, how exactly, did you know where I was?”

“Hank, with the resources I have at my disposal it wasn't exactly difficult,” Boris said. 

“Then answer me this, did you already know where I was before or after April asked? You know, for someone who holds his privacy in such high esteem you don't seem to care about it in other people.”

Boris didn't look away from Hank's steady gaze, but he leaned back in his high-backed leather chair. He studied Hank. “Does it matter?”

“Humor me.”

“You showed up at my home unexpectedly, Caliel, my head of security was concerned about the security breach,” Boris explained briskly. “I did not think it was necessary, but as he so kindly reminded me, I pay him and his team a rather substantive amount of money for my security. So he would do the job to the best of his ability even if I didn't necessarily agree with the measures involved.”

 _Oh, well that took the wind out of my sails,_ Hank thought. He actually did understand that concern. He had showed up out of the blue, even if he had arrived with an invitation. Anyone could have gotten a hold of it, after all. The fact he never RSVP would have raised red flags. So he could understand why Boris' security people would want to verify who he was. “Oh, I see.”

“You were vetted, Hank. That you are standing here says that Caliel knows you are who you said you are. And he doesn't think you pose a threat.”

Hank frowned. “Okay, but why would you tell April where to find me?”

“She is a beautiful woman, and she seemed most sincere in her wish to express her gratitude to you for saving her life,” Boris said. “And what's more, the hotel room is hardly your personal residence. That I would not have given out so it is information which she does not have. Did she cause any inconvenience?”

“No,” Hank admitted as his lingering ire subsided. And although Hank still thought his anger was justified, he now felt a little foolish having driven all the way to Shadow Pond. “I just wasn't expecting to have her show up like she did.” He shook his head and turned to leave. 

“Hank.”

Hank turned back with a questioning look.

“Please stay, join me for lunch,” Boris asked, he stood up. He checked the time on his wrist-watch. “It is nearly noon, and Anthony should be ready to serve. I would still like the opportunity to convince you to accept my job offer.”

Hank hesitated, considering how he'd barged in, it felt too rude to not accept this invitation. “Okay, but you should know I'm going to give you a piece of my mind about the gold bar you left in my car.”

Boris' blue eyes widened with exaggerated surprised innocence. “Was it not sufficient compensation?”

“Oh, no. I was more than enough. Too much, in fact. I think my brother is trying to figure out if you can legally marry a bar of gold or if he can just elope.”

Boris' quietly laughed as he led the way out of the office for lunch.

And... well, once Boris had ample time to talk with him, Hank found himself really enjoying spending a meal with him. Hank learned that Boris and he actually had a lot more in common than he would have ever suspected. They shared a lot of similar views which really surprised Hank. Their discussion led Hank to think that he may have been too harsh in judging the man just from their first meeting. That maybe it wouldn't be so bad to be this man's doctor. 

Hank was rather intrigued by working for someone who clearly appreciated what he could do, what he was and what he could do on his behalf.

When Hank shared all the sordid details which led to him being fired (information that he noted didn't surprise the other man), Boris' understanding and his insistence that Hank had done the right thing ended up winning him over. His ex-fiancee had never bothered to understand him, that Boris took the time, and looked to be sincere in his support of Hank. It was more than Nikki had ever done.

Hank decided before the dessert tray was brought out that he could be the doctor for a man like Boris...well, at least through the summer.

*-*-*-*

Hank was headed for the mansion, early in the morning. He had his worn leather doctor's bag tightly clasped in his left hand as gravel crunched under his leather sandals. 

Peter, one of the Shifter bodyguards lopped by. He had shifted into the shape of a large cat – some kind of blend of cheetah and tiger – as he ran past Hank an all fours. The only reason that Hank recognized him was because he was the only one of the Shifters who went for a run around the grounds, so he was pretty confident of who it was even without using his craft-senses to double-check. 

“Good morning, Peter,” Hank called after him. He got an absentmindedly wave of a tail as the bodyguard continued his run. When Hank had first seen the Shifters use their Craft power so blatantly, he had gone on alert and gathered his power, expecting to find out that Shadow Pond was under attack or facing an emergency which would explain the power use. But over the last month he'd learned that the Crafters who worked for Boris often used their powers even for non-emergency related reasons, such as the Peter who liked to blend his daily run with a circuit of the estate.

It wasn't such a strange sight anymore, but seeing Peter made Hank pause and marvel at how comfortable the Crafters felt to be able to use their crafting skills so casually. Considering that there were some states which still had on the books laws which discriminated against Crafters, even if they weren't enforced much these days, most Crafters made a point of keeping their power displays private or saving it only for emergencies. There were exceptions, of course, (there were more than a handful of actors with Shifting Craft in Hollywood, Hank had even heard of a Smith, who did had long running show on the Discovery channel which really used his skills when it came to blowing stuff up) but considering that public displays of Craft power were regarded by most people to be the equivalent of waving a loaded gun... there was a reason that Crafters kept that ability to themselves unless they were first responders, and in one of many levels of law enforcement.

Even most Talents got nervous around Crafters. Yet Boris' employees felt comfortable, even with all the non-crafters which worked on the grounds and in the mansion. It said a lot about Boris and the high standards that he set for a working environment. Hank, had in the space of the last two weeks, really gotten to like Boris, much more than he ever expected considering his opinion of the man from first impression. Although, he was currently Hank's patient, he liked to think that Boris would also make a good friend.

Hank continued onto the mansion, moving through the halls with ease, nodding his hello to the various people he saw until he came through the double glass doors that led out to the French gardens. Whenever possible, and weather permitting, Boris took his meals outside the mansion.

Boris was watching him approach with a faint smile on his lips as Hank drew close. “Good morning, Hank,” he said with a sincerely warm and welcoming voice.

“Good morning, Boris.” Hank smiled back.

“Would you care to join me for breakfast?” Boris asked, nodding to the generous spread of breakfast foods.

“I will, thank you.”

Boris' eyebrows went up in surprise, but he smiled in pleased pleasure as Hank sat across from him.

Hank couldn't help grinning. Every time Hank had stopped by the castle to give Boris his tri-weekly check up, the man had always invited him to breakfast which Hank had always declined. But he felt like surprising Boris this morning... and Evan had eaten the last of his eggs and finished off his milk before he had raced off, taking Hank's car. His brother had been mumbling something about enjoying the beach before he had to go back to the city and that the metal was calling his name. Hank didn't pay attention when Evan got into those kinds of moods. When Evan felt the call of his Talent, he was impossible to deal with until he got the itch out of his system and found his so-called treasure. Although Hank did make a mental note to raid Evan's pockets for quarters before left on the bus on Sunday. Hank was running low on parking meter change, and his brother hadn't bothered to own a car since moving into the city. So Hank was more than willing to let Boris provide for breakfast this morning, as it would be hours until he got his car back. 

Hank was happily chewing on fresh strawberries, enjoying the burst of sweet juice on his tongue when he looked up and caught Boris staring at him as he reached for another strawberry from the crystal bowl. The look wasn't the evaluating sort which Hank was used to seeing from Boris. It was more... covetous and hungry for something which wasn't food. The expression vanished nearly at once and Boris went back to looking at Hank with a distant friendliness.

Still Hank's breath caught in his chest and he had to swallow before he choked on his mouthful. “Would you like the strawberries?” Hank offered, trying to keep his voice steady. He had known from the first meeting that Boris was attracted to him. Hank would be a liar if he said that he didn't find Boris to be an incredibly attractive man but since he had agreed to be Boris' personal physician Hank had been ignoring these flashes of interest. As long as Boris never said a word, Hank much rather preferred to ignore it. Hank really didn't want to have to let him down gently. And...he had a small voice at the back of his mind which accused him of being selfish and not wanting Boris to move on.

“Nein. Thank you, no,” Boris murmured, looking away and opening the folded German newspaper which had been waiting for him on a silver plate on a rolling food cart which stood next to the patio table.

Hank finished his breakfast, and lingered over the absolutely heavenly coffee which Dieter poured for him. He was on his second cup, eying the silver carafe and wondering if he could beg for some of the beans from Dieter before he went back to the guest house or just the name of the blend so he could get his hands on it himself. Although Hank suspected that buying it himself would put a sizable dent in his weekly budget (he was keeping a better eye on his expenses now that it wasn't so painful a reminder of how bad his life had gotten) as Boris didn't apologize for enjoying the best things in life.

Boris folded the newspaper, and set it back onto the tray it had arrived on. He stood up, buttoning his suit jacket as he did when Hank put down the coffee cup. “I'm ready, whenever you are, doctor.”

Hank smiled and stood up. They walked beside each other as they returned to the mansion.

*-*-*-*

First time that Hank had seen the medical room which Boris had equipped with everything a doctor could need to run a thorough medical examination he'd been taken aback. It had everything from a portable MRI machine to dialysis machine to every kind of medical monitor currently available on the market. Hank could successfully run an entire practice from the room if he wanted to, it was that well equipped and up to date. Although, after a couple weeks, Hank had realized that most equipment would probably go unused since Boris was perfectly healthy with the exception of the ticking time-bomb in his DNA.

“So, how am I doing, Hank?” Boris asked, as he slowly buttoned up his mauve shirt with his eyes locked on Hank.

“So far so good,” Hank said, entirely too aware of Boris. He could normally ignore Boris' nakedness during the medical examination but when it ended Hank was always struck by how attractive he found him. Hank forced away any interest he had in seeing him slowly dressing and deliberately turned his back to Boris. It wasn't professional. Hank would turn in his medical license before he violated the trust one of his patients placed in him, even if only in his own mind. He ignored impulse to turn back to the other man and focused his attention on putting away the vials of Boris' blood, double checking that they were correctly labeled.

Boris also had a fully equipped lab to run all manner of medical tests in another room in the mansion. Shadow Pond was so ridiculously large it seemed to have at least one of everything. At this point, Hank wouldn't be surprised if he learned that there was big top circus and amphitheater in another of the rooms. Although it didn't have a lab tech. Boris had offered to hire a lab technician but Hank preferred to do the work himself. It helped make him feel as he was earning his ridiculously high paycheck.

“Hank... do you have plans tonight?”

Hank blinked and looked over to Boris on reflex. Boris was absently straightening the fall of his ash-colored suit jacket as he devoted most of his attention to Hank.

“Um...no,” Hank said, shaking his head, even as he felt both relieved and disappointed that Boris was fully dressed. “No plans tonight. Unless you count getting further down on my Netflix instant queue or making a grocery run,” he added jokingly.

“I wouldn't be interfering with your plans with your brother?”

“No,” Hank said, shaking his head again. “I'm lucky if I get to see Evan before afternoon tomorrow.” Evan was really enjoying the Hamptons and used every second to party, before he had to go back to work on Monday. Hank was mostly amused, at least when Evan wasn't stealing his car for hours on end, but he also had no sympathy for his little brother's hangovers, even when Evan pathetically begged for a bit of Hank's Healing Craft so he wouldn't die.

At his whimpering, Hank liked to cheerfully – and loudly – remind him: Evan got the hangover on his own, he could deal with it on his own.

“I have some social obligations which I need to fulfill,” Boris said. “I have to attend a party which I cannot avoid. I would like you to attend as well, as my guest.”

Hank hesitated, remembering the line he'd drawn in the sand when it came to his interactions with Boris and considered on which side this request fell. “Boris...”

Boris took a step closer, his blue eyes were quietly pleading. “These social events are a bore, but nonetheless I must attend them. Time would go faster with the company of a friend. I would be deeply appreciative if you would keep me company, Hank.”

A friend. He could be a friend. Hank smiled and nodded slowly. “Yeah... okay, I'd like that, Boris.” 

Boris' answering smile was small but brilliant and pleased.

*-*-*-*

Hank ended up being Boris' plus one to more than one social event over next few days. He couldn't deny Boris when he asked if he could keep him company and... well, Hank really enjoyed the time he got to spend with the other man. And as Boris never expressed anything more than friendly interest, Hank managed to convince himself that they were nothing more than friends.

*-*-*-*

“So, how long have you been with Boris?”

Hank nearly choked on the champagne. “What? No, I'm not with-- um, I'm Boris' doctor,” Hank stuttered out.

“Oh, oh, sweetie, that's too bad,” said the woman, who Hank thought had introduced herself as Mrs. Newberg. She was the one of three other Crafters who Hank had come across in the party who wasn't a member of the security staff. She was a Shifter. She currently looked like a blonde bombshell in her mid-thirties (actually, she reminded Hank strongly of Marilyn Monroe) although from the way she spoke Hank thought she had to be older than how she looked.

Mrs Newberg said, “Honey, you don't know how long I've been seeing that boy show up to these things all on his own.”

Hank double-blinked and raised his estimated guess of her age. If she was thinking of Boris as a boy... Then what she said sank in and he looked around for Boris in his surprise. He found him nearly at once. Boris seemed to sense his gaze, because he looked away from the very young couple (who couldn't be more than teenagers, although Hank hoped not considering the drinks in their hands) he was talking with and shot Hank a restrained smile. 

Reflexively, Hank smiled back before turning back to Mrs. Newberg. “He doesn't bring anyone?” Hank asked, curiously. People didn't talk about Boris with him. Everyone was much more interested in trying to get Hank to talk to them about him. They always left those conversations disappointed.

“No, dear. Oh, once in a while he'll have some eye-candy hanging on his arm but we could all tell he wasn't interested. Now you... you, oh, he's got his eye on you.”

Hank took a swallow from the champagne flute, trying to hide his stunned reaction. She spoke as if Boris felt more than just the interest Hank had seen in him occasionally, but that wasn't possible. 

“I'm here as Boris' friend,” Hank finally managed. And he mentally thanked his Craft for letting him control his blush-response. The capillaries of his face remained close with a bit of concentration, hiding the fact that if he had been anything other than a Crafter he would have been turning beet-red.

“Hm... well, if that's true then he won't mind if I steal you for a dance,” Mrs. Newberg said cheerfully, and before Hank could protest, she was plucking the flute out of his hand, dropping it onto the empty tray of a startled waitstaff before dragging Hank off to the open dance floor.

Hank tried protesting but to no avail and he soon found himself with his arms around the blonde, whose breasts he would swear that she was making bigger by the minute, even as they waltzed around the ballroom. After he stopped trying to find a polite away to escape her clutches, Hank would never admit it, but he actually did have fun. Mrs. Newberg had the most hilarious gossip, without actually being cruel, about the other attendees and she had as many funny stories to share about her own life. She wasn't at all embarrassed in sharing her own share of misadventures, nor did she hesitate in laughing at herself.

After an hour she conceded to give Hank a break and dropped him off at Boris' side. Mrs. Newberg also left Hank her number and email which she had quickly scribbled onto Hank's palm. Hank was flattered, although he rather wished she had refrained from cheerfully exclaiming how doctors did make excellent husbands so loudly that more than half of the party turned towards her.

Boris muttered things in German under his breath that Hank suspected weren't in the least bit complimentary as Mrs. Newberg sashayed away, drawing more than one admiring eye.

“I hope you are not seeking to be the fourth Mr. Newberg,” Boris said, his tone chilly. His entire expression was locked behind a polite mask, which made Hank realize with a start of exactly how often Boris let down his guard when he was around him.

Hank raised his eyebrows. “I don't think that's really gonna happen, Boris. I think she just likes being dramatic.” And she seemed lonely. She really enjoyed having Hank's attention even if he wasn't doing anymore more than listening to her stories.

“Hmm,” Boris said noncommittally, but his demeanor softened after a few seconds.

Yet for the rest of the evening, Boris stuck by Hank's side. His hand often found a place on Hank's shoulder, or even drifting over his mid-back, as if to reassure himself that Hank was still with him. Boris' touch never lingered for more than a second or two, but Hank found himself becoming more and more hyper-aware of his touch as the evening wore on. 

Hank blamed his next thoughts on a combination of factors, the fact that he missed being a steady relationship, he was lonelier in the Hamptons than he'd been for a while, and how Boris was one of a rare few people currently in his life who touched him without hesitation or wariness due to Hank's Craft but... what it came down to was: Hank wanted Boris. He wanted to kiss Boris and find out if the other man was as intense in bed as he was in his normal everyday or was he more relaxed and prone to laugh. 

Maybe it was simply that Hank had gone from having an active sex life to no one at all in the last few weeks but he was caught by the mental image, and if he hadn't had excellent control over all his autonomous systems he would have been very turned on in the middle of the party when Boris touched him again but this time let his hand stay on Hank's shoulder.

Then Hank remembered that he _couldn't_ go down that path. And with a sinking realization he knew he had to let Boris know that getting into a personal relationship wasn't going to happen between them.

*-*-*-*

“Boris,” Hank said softly, stepping away from Boris. His hand had drifted down to the small of Hank's back, lingering for much longer than usual during the conversation with the local hospital administrator, Jill Casey. She had caught Boris as he was prepared to leave, showing up to ask about funding for a project she'd had until Boris had told her to make an appointment with him.

When she'd showed up, Hank had been struck by how attractive she was. Then Boris had pressed his broad hand to Hank's back, left it there and thoroughly destroyed Hank's train of thought until Jill Casey had walked away and Boris had dropped his hand away. 

Hank caught Boris' elbow. “We need to talk.”

Understanding flickered across Boris' face. Then Boris looked around the room with a calculating eye. “Not here, Hank,” he said, his voice low.

Hank agreed, letting Boris go. Boris gestured to an empty alcove and Hank followed after him. 

Outside, Hank could smell the ocean air coming in on the high breeze as well as the faint crash of breakers on the sand. All the party goers had made their way inside as the wind had picked up, leaving a spot of privacy for Boris and Hank to talk. In fact, the only people who Hank could sense outside, when he stretched out his craft-senses, were a couple of familiar Shifters. They were men from Boris' security details, who'd remained out of the house to monitor the perimeter. 

“We can't be anything more than friends,” Hank said at once, willing to be the first to plunge into what he suspected would be an uncomfortable conversation. 

“What is your concern?”

Hank tilted his head, baffled by what Boris meant by this question. He thought it was obvious.

“If you are concerned about power dynamics, Hank,” Boris continued. “Then would it assuage your unease to learn that I have had a romantic relationship with one of my doctors in the past? So it is not an unfamiliar situation for me. And I can assure you that it would not affect your employment with me. Because, no matter what you say, I would honor our contract.”

Hank stared at him, thoroughly startled by the thought that Boris had been in this sort of situation before. “It's an ethical concern,” he admitted. 

Boris nodded. “It is on my end as well, I am after all your employer.”

Hank huffed out a breath. “Honestly, I hadn't even thought about that,” he admitted. 

“Hmm, I had thought not.”

“But it doesn't make a difference,” Hank said firmly. “My own ethics demand I maintain an objective distance from my patients.”

“Healers don't require it.”

“I'm a doctor first, you know that Boris.”

“Ja, so you have said before,” Boris agreed. He looked out toward the direction of the beach. “And while I understand your position, I would be liar if I said that I agreed with it. I like you, Hank. There are few people who I hold in such esteem.” Boris sighed heavily. “But I also admire the strength of your convictions as well as your moral character, I know you would not compromise yourself. Very well, Hank. We shall remain only friends.”

“Thank you,” Hank said, although it felt like a hollow victory with Boris looking so quietly dejected. And... he also couldn't help feeling disappointed at the thought of ending the possibility of more with him so abruptly, without even trying to find out if they would work together. Hank couldn't shake the feeling that he was losing out on something extraordinary. “You know, if I wasn't your doctor... it would be a different story.”

Boris turned so his gaze caught Hank's. “Then until such a time as the situation changes,” Boris said softly. A glow seemed to catch flame in his eyes.

“Yeah,” Hank agreed softly. 

*-*-*-*

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/JadeDragoness/media/Magic%20is%20Rarely%20the%20Solution/Untilsuchtime.jpg.html)


	3. Chapter 3

The only drawback Hank found to being the private physician to someone who was even more health conscious than he was, and who had the physical stats of a man half his age (the genetic mutation was still laying fallow) was that Hank was bored out of his mind a lot of the time. 

Sure, he was living rent-free in the Hamptons and being payed so well for his summer job that he would still be able to take care of his living expenses well into the next year, even while paying the lawyer's hefty retainer to fight off the Gardners. But other than joining Boris for breakfast before running a medical scan on him, both with his Craft-senses and with various medical equipment which Boris just happened to have on hand, Hank's days were rather empty. 

Hank didn't know anyone in the Hamptons and while he'd introduced himself to as much a the staff as possible, it felt awkward to socialize when they were clearly working and their attention was elsewhere.

Evan came down every weekend, because apparently the temptation of the Hamptons was too much to resist especially since he didn't have to pay for a hotel room when he could just crash with Hank, but he was usually out of the house by 9 P.M. to go find a party. Evan didn't stagger back until 4 A.M. and didn't wake up until noon the next day so his brother wasn't exactly keeping him company.

Therefore Hank had a lot of time on his hands. He wasn't quite desperate enough to call up Mrs. Newberg for company, although he admitted to being tempted a time or two. Instead, Hank spent of lot of time eating out at some spectacular restaurants, enjoying the sights, and jogging on the beach but most especially Hank spent his time job hunting. 

*-*-*-*

As he pulled over his convertible, Hank double checked the GPS. His SAAB's engine ticked over gently as it cooled as he warily eyed his destination. 

It was a sprawling three-story building which had clearly been an office at one point in its life and while it hadn't fallen into disrepair, it clearly hadn't been used for a while. The building was lined with wide panes of silvered glass which were dusty, and even the ornamental plants were a bit overgrown, as if the landscape company which maintained the grounds had been cut back to stopping by every month or so instead of every week.

Frowning, Hank stepped out of his car. 

Well, the website had explained that the new clinic branch was still coming together. That it wouldn't be ready to begin accepting patients until fall, and that was why they were looking for staff that was prepared to start working after the summer. But still... the place looked entirely too empty. There was a sleek, black BMW in the parking lot. Yet, Hank had been expecting to see a fleet of contractors installing equipment or even just redoing the plumbing or repainting. Something. 

Hank shook his head, telling himself that he was being paranoid. Who would set up such an elaborate plan to get him here? The website had been pretty detailed. It also had been exacting in explaining what they were looking for in doctors, nurses and other staff. All the medical terminology had been accurate. And, most importantly, two days ago Hank had talked to the hiring manager when he had been called about coming in for the interview.

Hank straightened his suit jacket and checked his appearance in the mirror. After running a hand through his dark curls, he judged himself presentable enough to pass muster, or the interview, and walked toward the building's glass double doors. He tested them but the doors were locked. Hank used his Talent so it could show him a way in, but nothing glowed as a solution to this problem.

 _Huh_ Hank thought, _I'm sure I'm not early. He did say 2 o'clock._

Hank turned around to look at the BMW, pulling out his cell phone. The car had to belong to the hiring manager, Mr. Winfield. Mr. Winfield had to be here somewhere. The phone rang before switching to the voicemail message. Hank was paying attention to the phone but he still caught the sound of rubber on concrete behind him even before his craft-senses alerted him to a swiftly approaching life force.

Hank began to turn, a greeting forming on his lips when he felt a pin prick on the side of his neck, right on the jugular vein. Startled, Hank jerked back, turning to fully face his attacker. For a bewildering second, Hank froze in shock as he stared at Dieter's bespectacled face. 

“What--” he managed through numbed lips. The feel of the drug in his system made Hank reflexively reach out with his crafting power, trying to slow the effect of the drug but he was too late. The drug was already in his brain. His craft-sense went haywire, slipping out of Hank's control. For a slip second it flared outwards in a halo of golden light, fueled by Hank's panic until before everything, from his vision to his craft-senses to his _mind_ , lost focus.

Hank couldn't think. His knees buckled as the world slipped sideways, leaving him behind. The last thing he felt was a pair of hands catching him under his armpits.

Then everything went from blurry to black.

*-*-*-*

Hank slowly woke up, hearing the familiar hum of jet engines and tasting the dry flatness of canned air at the back of his throat. He also heard several unfamiliar muffled voices speaking but it just sounded like nonsense. He mumbled something as he shifted in place, opening his eyes to a bright light right above him.

A bleary figure came up next to him and Hank felt a broad hand on his wrist, lifting his right arm and then there was a sting as a needle sank into his inner elbow. After a short disorienting moment, Hank's arm felt chilled.

He went numb.

Then darkness dragged Hank back under.

*-*-*-*

Hank woke slowly as if sleep was grudgingly releasing its hold on him. 

He felt awful. His mouth was dry. His head spun, and his back ached like he'd been lying on it for far too long. Hank blinked again and again, struggling to keep his heavy eyelids open because felt like there were a couple of hundred pound weights attached to them. It took several minutes before Hank thought he would be able to keep his eyes open without them falling shut after a few seconds. It took a bit longer to actually focus them but when he did Hank was blinking up at the ceiling's beautifully carved panels in puzzlement. With growing alarm, Hank realized he had no idea where he was. He was lying on a queen-sized bed and he had no memory of getting there. Hank sat up with an effort, gasping as his muscles protested. 

He froze in place as memory flooded back. He remembered driving to an interview which had never happened. He remembered being jumped and attacker drugging him with a fast acting sedative. Dieter.

His heart started pounding away with fear so intensely that Hank reflexively drew upon his Craft to calm himself down, but his power responded sluggishly. Hank reached for it with greater concentration and yet his power barely stirred. With a sinking feeling, Hank realized that he must have lingering traces of the sedative in his system and that somehow the drug was affecting his powers. So Hank focused all of his concentration on using his crafting power to slowly – achingly slowly – increase his metabolism to burn through the remnants of the sedative as quickly as possible.

It took several seconds longer than it should have for his Craft to start working and he was shaking from the effort afterward. But at the least the last of the drug would be flushed out of his system within a couple of minutes.

As soon as he'd recovered more control over his Craft, Hank began to brace himself to do a full scan on himself to check for any other nasty surprises when a man's voice said, “I had expected you to wake two hours ago, Healer Lawson. I suspect my employees were somewhat too overly cautious in drugging you.”

Startled, Hank jerked his head toward the direction of the accented voice. An unfamiliar man was sitting on the far side of the room, a good twenty feet away from the bed, near to a door. The man sat by a small wooden table on which rested a crystal pitcher of water and an empty glass. 

Shifting in place so that he faced him, Hank cautiously studied his kidnapper. The man smiled at him with what Hank would almost describe as a boyish charm if the man hadn't had him drugged and taken to who knew where. He looked to be was around Hank's age (he couldn't be more exact unless he scanned him with his Craft). His kidnapper was clean shaven with dark hair which didn't look dyed. He was also wearing a suit that reminded Hank strongly of the sort that Boris wore. A suit with an almost European flare which had to be even more expensive than it looked. 

“What do you want?” Hank rasped, his throat was still dry even after swallowing a couple of times. He was thirsty enough to eye the pitcher next to his kidnapper with covetous eyes. Hank licked his lips.

“I've been looking forward to meeting you, Healer Lawson. My name is Milos Kuester Ratenicz. You can call me Milos.”

Startled, Hank stared at his kidnapper. “You're related to Boris?” he asked in disbelief. Why would a member of Boris' family kidnap him?

“He's my cousin,” Milos said, his voice a shade cooler. His smile lost some of its ease, becoming more a bare of white teeth than a smile.

Hank's hands clenched with his fingers digging into the plush covers of the bed. He was getting angry. Its fire gave Hank strength and he was able to get to his feet, shakily walking over to Milos. Milos smiled brightly, tilting his head as Hank approached. He looked completely unconcerned although he had to be able to read the anger on Hank's face. 

“Healer Lawson, have a seat.” Milos said, nodding to the single empty chair.

The calm expression broke through Hank's anger. He slowed down to a wary stop before he got to the table. Milos knew who he was and he clearly wasn't worried about Hank's Healing Craft which meant that he had to have some sort of defense or leverage against Hank.

“Sit, Healer Lawson.”

Reluctantly, Hank sat down. He poured himself a glass a water, wanting to take care of his thirst before he dealt with anything else. He took a careful sip just enough to wet his lips, letting his craft check for any drug interactions. After a long second he knew the water came was free of drugs, so Hank carefully drank down the entire glass. He didn't bother to restrain his craft-senses, letting it surround him as a cloud of invisible energy. While using his Healing craft as an offensive weapon went against to everything he was, Hank wasn't about to let his personal discomfort keep him from protecting himself if Milos proved dangerous. 

Hank wouldn't hurt the other man, but he could freeze his lungs, temporary cut off blood supply to his brain and force him into sleep if he had to. Yet without ever letting his craft-senses touch the other man, something about Milos troubled Hank. His craft-senses kept sending him a vague impression of wrongness, like the taste of milk about to spoil. Not completely ruined but it was far too late to be saved.

Milos kept smiling the entire time even when Hank put down the empty glass so harshly onto the wooden tabletop that it was a wonder it didn't crack under the force of his anger.

“Why am I here?” Hank asked through gritted teeth. He wanted to go home. He wanted to see Evan. To see Boris. He wanted to be away from this man who thought it was normal, and not completely inexcusable, to kidnap people.

Milos stared with something wild glittering in his blue eyes which made Hank tense up. “I invited you here Healer because I have need of your abilities. I want you to do the same job for me that you've been doing for Boris.”

“I-- I've just been Boris' doctor,” Hank explained. That couldn't be the only reason he'd been kidnapped. It was ridiculous. There were plenty of people with a doctor's degree. And while fully trained Healers were rare there were bound to be some who would have been perfectly happy to sign up to care for a wealthy patient. From the looks of the room, Milos had more than enough money to hire a Healer. So why kidnap _him?_

Hank continued,“He hired me to run medical exams on him. My job is to make certain Boris stays healthy.”

The smile on Milos' face dropped. “I know that is not all you did for my cousin, Healer Lawson.”

Hank tried not to react to that past tense. It implied all manner of disturbing things. The least which was that he would never go back to working for Boris. 

“You are aware of our particular family curse?” Milos asked coolly. 

It was like the final puzzle piece falling into place, and Hank knew _exactly_ what his craft-senses were trying to tell him. Milos was sick. Milos had the same genetic disease that Boris had. Only in him it was active and destroying him from the inside out. Reflexively, Hank stretched out his craft-senses towards the other man and recoiled at the increased feeling of rot. Yet even as he was physically jerking away, his craft-senses surged closer. Every instinct powered by his Healing Craft began clamoring that he heal the other man, that he find the source of the rot and reduce the sickness until Milos was healthy once again. 

Yet if the cause of his sickness was really the genetic disease then there was nothing Hank could do.

Hank had to force himself to curl his craft-senses away from Milos. He would have preferred locked them down but he still needed the edge they would give him.

“Yes,” Hank managed to choke out. “I know about it. But... there's nothing I can do for you. My Healing Craft doesn't work that way.”

This time Hank could read Milos' flash of emotion. Rage burned in the other man's face before he hid it under a cold, unaffected mask. Prickles of unease drifted down Hank's spine. Abruptly, he was too aware of the fact that the man was taller than him and outweighed him by around thirty pounds. And while Healing Craft gave him an edge in a fight Hank wasn't exactly used to using it in an offensive way. Milos could easily have knife or a gun on him. Hank's craft would be useless against a bullet to the head or heart. For the first time in years, Hank began wishing he was another type of Crafter. Being an Elemental or Smith would have given him a much bigger advantage in fight.

Hank tried not to let his new awareness of his vulnerability show in his face. There were many things that Hank had learned during his stint in a Brooklyn hospital. Medical Spanish was one, another was learning how to deal with a lot of aggressive and dangerous people, who in their pain, fear or confusion pulled all manner of weapons on him. With most of them, simply not showing he was afraid had been enough to tip the balance in Hank's favor. 

So Hank raised his chin and met Milos' eyes.

“I don't believe that is true, Healer Lawson,” Milos hissed threateningly. “I do not care for liars and I will not tolerate you lying to me.”

Hank had no response to his accusation. He hadn't been lying to the man, but Milos clearly didn't believe that. He'd kidnapped Hank, drugged him and he still didn't know where he was. Hank wasn't about to argue with him. “I'll remember that.”

“See that you do,” Milos said, his dark tone subsiding into something friendlier. Hank waited him out. Milos continued staring at him. “You know, at first I didn't know why Boris hired you. Oh, I know that he hires doctors. My cousin goes through them like some people I know go through sports cars. Expensive and flashy and intended to be brought out only to impress then discarded for a new one after a few months. But then I learned from my informant that you are something new. Boris had managed to acquire one of the rarest models, a Healing Crafter.”

Hank's jaw clenched. The informant was Dieter, no doubt. Hank still had a hard time wrapping his head around that. Boris trusted Dieter so much. He had even told Hank once that Dieter had been in his employ for nearly twenty years. Boris couldn't know that he was trusting someone who was betraying him. Boris would be devastated when he found out the truth. Yet Hank hoped so much that Boris found out the truth, and quickly, because as long as Dieter was at Boris' side, then Boris was in danger. Who knew how much damage Dieter was causing without anyone suspecting anything. Hank needed to find a way to escape and warn Boris.

Milos leaned close. “And then I wondered why would Boris need a healer. After all, he is in _perfect_ health,” Milos spat out those words with venomous hate. 

Hank barely kept from flinching. There was so much anger pouring off Milos that Hank barely had to use his craft-senses to feel it roiling off of him. Milos resented Boris' good health. No, more than that. He detested the fact that Boris was healthy... while he wasn't.

“He has run out of it, hasn't he?” Milos asked, with cruel satisfaction.

Hank stared back, trying desperately to think of what the 'it' could be but nothing came to mind. “Run out of what?” he asked cautiously.

“Has he told you the story of the Count of St. Germain?”

Hank frowned. “No, who's the Count of...um...”

“St. Germain.” 

The weight of Milos' gaze felt even heavier. Hank bore it, keeping his back straight and his eyes on the other man. “I've never heard of him.”

Milos studied Hank for what felt like an eternity before he settled back into his chair with a calculating look in his eyes. “I see. So he never explained the real purpose as to why he hired you. I would wager that he never explained what it is you were making for him.” A friendly smile flashed across Milos' face, looking disconcerting charming and joyful. “Well, it's no matter. _I_ have you now.”

Hank tried not to shudder as cold dread radiated up his spine, although he couldn't keep from tensing even more. 

Milos continued, “If Boris thought you were powerful enough to make it for him, then I have no doubt you will be able to do the same for me.”

“Make what?” Hank asked, suddenly too impatient with his kidnapper's hedging. “What am I making?” Hank repeated. “I'm not exactly thrilled to be here. The sooner I get to go home the better.”

“You will go home, Healer Lawson,” Milos said, his voice friendly. “As soon as you make me the elixir.”

“Elixir? What elixir?” Hank asked confused.

“You will remain my guest until you can make me the same elixir that Boris had kept to himself for far to long. It is the same elixir which gave the Count of St. Germain his immortality. He was a man that lived for hundreds of years, because he'd discovered the secret of alchemy...”

With growing horror, Hank listened to the story that Milos spun out. The way that he spoke about the Count of St. Germain made him sound like a fairytale. But from the fervor in Milos eyes it was clear that he believed the Count had managed to live to be hundreds of years old. And if that part of the story was true then there were only two possibilities. The Count could have been an Atomic, a human being with a magical power so great that in historical texts they had been called gods.

As Crafters were more powerful than Talents then Atomics were an exponentially stronger than any Crafter to ever live. They could mold matter and energy into whatever form or function they wanted. In the past they'd changed countries, the world, by raising nations and leveling them. Genghis Khan, Alexander the Great, Julius Caesar, Leonardo da Vinci, were only some of the few remembered by history. They were also so rare that one was born every hundred years. A lot of countries still had laws in place which called for the death of anyone even _suspected_ of harboring Atomic level power. They scared everyone, even Smiths, the strongest of Crafters.

The last known Atomic, a British woman named Helen Barkley, had died during Word War II fighting for the Allies. Hank still remembered the documentary about her that one of his high school history teachers had showed in class. The producers had even gotten a hold of a declassified video of Helen Barkley fighting against a squad of Axis Crafters. It had been terrifying. She'd torn through Shifters, Elementals and a couple of Smiths like they'd been paper, as if the vast power they'd been throwing at her had been nothing. Then she'd faced Panzer tanks and machine gun fire without flinching and destroyed them too. At the end of the fight, she hadn't even been breathing hard. 

With the memory in mind Hank could believe that an Atomic could even make themselves immortal like the Count of St. Germain.

The other possibility, one that Hank didn't even want to contemplate, was that the Count could have been a Healing Crafter but one who had turned _wrong_. A Healer who instead, of pouring life into others, stole it instead. Known in some countries as vampires, wraiths, in others as Rippers – after the most infamous one who'd never been caught and nicknamed Jack the Ripper – a Healing Crafter who twisted the purpose of their craft could use potentially use it to make themselves virtually immortal. And if that was what Milos wanted from him... Hank would use his Craft to stop his own heart first.

But none of those two options explained the elixir which Milos was talking about.

“It is this same elixir which Boris has been using to hold off the effects of our curse,” Milos continued, shaking Hank out of his thoughts. “He has been hording for himself, when he should have been sharing it with the rest of the family, with me.” The anguish in Milos' voice surprised Hank.

“But he doesn't have--” Hank tried to say, only for Milos to slam his left fist on the tabletop, rattling the glassware.

“I _know_ he has it. How else has he been able to outlive the age of both our fathers without any symptoms?” Milos snarled. “There is no other explanation.”

Carefully, Hank studied Milos, with a sinking feeling he realized that no matter what he said Milos wasn't going to listen. He wasn't being reasonable. He wouldn't accept any point of view that wasn't the one he believed in. Anything Hank said to the contrary would just be ignored, or it could trigger Milos to lash out. 

Hank became aware all over again to his vulnerabilities with this man, so he stayed quiet.

Milos got to his feet slowly, struggling. Hank almost helped, actually getting to his feet before he thought better of it. He remained standing, keeping a wary distance from Milos. Milos pulled out a carved wooden cane which had been hiding from view tucked behind the chair and leaned against. He looked down his nose at Hank until Hank met his gaze.

“You will make me the elixir, Healer Lawson. Once it has healed me, only then I will allow you to return to your country.” Milos' face grew dark and his voice dropped as it became full of menacing promise. He said, “If you don't make me the elixir... well, I will have no further use of you.” Milos shot Hank one last deadly, humorless smile before he started limping away towards one of only two doors in the room.

Hank followed Milos to the door even as his thoughts went into a tailspin. When the door opened Hank saw a large armed man standing across the door with gun in his hand. The barrel was aimed right at Hank. He froze in place, raising his hands up to show he was unarmed. Yet the gun stayed trained on him and the guard looked determined.

“Get some rest, Healer Lawson, I will be seeing you again soon enough,” Milos said. The door closed behind Milos with a soft click but it rang in Hank's head like a death knell. 

Hank walked shakily back to the bed, sitting on the edge as his knees buckled. For a long moment he was too overwhelmed by Milos' bombshell to do more stare blankly at the empty room, and the locked door. 

He wasn't in the Hamptons. Hank wasn't even in the United States anymore. There was no way that the police's or even the FBI's strongest dowser would be able to track him down. And he'd been kidnapped by a man who wanted him to make something impossible. Not even the most skilled Healing Crafter could _grant_ immortality. Even if Hank had been an Atomic with all that amazing and mind-boggling power at his command, he didn't think he would be able to make another person immortal.

Hank buried his head in his hands. And when Milos didn't get what he wanted... when he learned that Hank couldn't make the elixir he thought he needed to fight his family disease, when he didn't get what he thought was the only existing _cure_...

If Hank didn't find a way to escape, Milos was going to kill him.


	4. Chapter 4

Mostly, Hank was left alone for what he thought were three days. It could have been two or four days. He couldn't be certain because at some point during his kidnapping someone had removed his watch and taken his cellphone and even his shoes (although leaving his socks), which had to be a deliberate attempt to keep him from running off. The room he was stuck in had no windows, and other than the door being guarded by armed men, the only other door opened to a small bathroom. Which was also windowless, to his complete lack of surprise. The only way that Hank could keep track of how much time was passing was by the meals being delivered by couple of armed men. But other than the guards, who never spoke a word to him much less answered any of Hank's questions, he was simple left alone. Milos didn't return. Something which made Hank relieved, frustrated and worried in equal measure.

Hank took the time he'd been left to his own devices to explore the room. Really, it was more of a cell, however large, elaborate and comfortable. The room was mostly empty with barely any furniture, other than the bed and the small table. There was an armoire against a wall which had several clothes in Hank's size which had been disturbing to discover as it was proof of how carefully his kidnapping had been planned out. The room also had bookshelf filled with leather bound books, although most weren't in English.

And other than finding some entertainment to wile away the hours, the room didn't reveal anything which could help him escape. Hank had scoured the room with his Talent from nearly the moment that Milos has left, after he had gotten himself together. Hank had focused on the problem of finding a way to leave because he trusted it to find a solution for him. If there was one. 

Only there wasn't.

Hank used his Talent to check everything, looking for that tell-tale faint glow that let him know the solution to his problem was on hand but the only object which glowed had been the door through which Milos had left. There was no other way to leave the room. His cell. 

The only way out was through the exit guarded by heavy armed men. Hank had no doubt they had orders to shoot him if he tried to leave.

*-*-*-*

On the fourth day, Hank was rudely startled from sleep when a guard came into his room and flatly told him to follow him. 

“Why? Where are am I going?” Hank asked warily, as he got out of the bed. 

The large blond man didn't answer his question, only keeping his gun barrel trained on Hank, waiting with an impatient air.

“I won't do anything to you,” Hanks said quietly, as he kept from making any sudden movements. The guards weren't Crafters, but each of them seemed to have a Talent, although Hank couldn't say what kind.

The guard's upper lip curled back in disdain but he didn't say anything.

Hank breathed out an exasperated sigh. “Can I at least change out of my pajamas?” He still found it disconcerting that the room had pajamas for him to wear. And while he would have happily stayed away from the strange clothes there were only so many days in a row he could wear his own clothing, so it didn't take long before he gave in and changed.

“No,” the man said curtly, a faint British accent in his voice.

“Fine,” Hank said. He walked out of the room while staying in front of the guard. The second guard, who had been waiting by the door, looked him over as Hank approached. Checking for what, Hank had no clue. It wasn't like anything resembling a weapon had been left in the room with him. The guards didn't even bring him utensils, turning all his meals into finger-food. 

The second guard was a brunet and while not as large as the blond man he was still bigger than Hank. He grudgingly moved aside to let Hank get head of them. At the threshold, Hank paused, looking left and right as he checked out the hallway. The room came out to a long windowless hall. His cell was right in middle. There was a surprising starkness to the walls. It made Hank think that his cell had been prepared especially with the idea of keeping prisoners in comfort. Again, not exactly a relaxing thought to consider that Milos had previous experience in kidnapping and holding people against their will. An inexperienced kidnapper would make more mistakes which Hank could use to escape. An experienced kidnapper wouldn't give him those openings.

Cold metal prodded the back of Hank's neck. The blond guard rumbled out, “Keep moving.”

“Considering, I don't know where I'm going, directions would be really helpful,” Hank said sharply, stepping forward to get away from the gun barrel. His heart was beating faster. He had to use his craft to calm down. An adrenaline rush wasn't exactly helpful at the moment. So Hank took in a deep breath and by the time he slowly let it out again he felt steady and collected.

The second guard grunted, exchanging several words in what sounded like Hungarian with the blond guard. Possibly it was Hungarian. Hank didn't exactly have a lot of experience hearing the language spoken aloud. They seemed to have worked out a system because the blond guard remained behind Hank while the other led him, constantly checking back at him with his gun in his right hand, although the brunet kept it pointed downwards.

They walked for several minutes during which Hank kept his Talent open and looking for anything which could help him get away while also keeping a tight grip on his craft, ready to use it. They went up up several staircases and even an elevator before Hank was walked onto a wide, stone lined terrace. 

The heat of the sun felt good against Hank's face after three days under artificial light and if he had been in any other situation he would have closed his eyes to savor it. But Milos was waiting for him at a round iron patio table piled high with food. Another man with graying hair sat cross the table from Milos. He also turned to glance Hank when Milos reacted at seeing him being brought out.

“Good morning, Healer Lawson,” Milos greeted him, brightly. “Please, join us for breakfast.”

“I wasn't aware it was morning,” Hank said as he sat down in the only chair available, right smack in the middle between Milos and the stranger. He tightened his grip on his craft-senses to keep from feeling any sensation of rot from Milos. The guards didn't follow as Milos ordered them away with a sharp word. They fell back to the doors leading up to the terrace, right out of earshot but well within shooting range. Hank didn't bother to turn to check if they were still pointing their guns at him. It didn't exactly matter when he was sitting next to someone much more dangerous. The one who gave those men their orders. “I only just went to sleep.”

“Of course, jet lag. I had forgotten,” Milos said apologetically. 

Hank warily eyed the expression of contriteness on his face, wondering how much it was real and how much of it was being feigned for the stranger who was watching them with piercing blue eyes. He didn't dare surface scan Milos to check.

“You have not introduced me to your guest, Milos,” the other man said, his voice thick with a Russian accent.

Hank kept his gaze firmly on Milos.

“I am being a terrible host, Dmitry, this is Healer Lawson. Healer Lawson, this is Dmitry Vasilyev. He will be procuring whatever you need for your project.”

Hank faced the Russian, smiling politely. “I prefer Hank. Or Doctor Lawson if you have to be formal.” He blinked as he realized something he'd first dismissed as him adjusting to actual sunshine. Dmitry was _glowing_. He was outlined in the faint tale-tell white glow of Hank's Talent.

 _He_ was Hank's solution to getting away from Milos.

His heart suddenly pounding away with a surge of hope and his smile becoming real, Hank held out his right hand.

Dmitry eyed him for a long assessing moment. “Pleased to meet you, Doctor,” Dmitry said, his voice distantly polite. He didn't raise his hand in turn. “I would shake your hand but I've been told before that Healers don't react well to diabetics.”

Hank blinked, considered explaining that wasn't an issue with him (he had excellent control and had been a doctor to more than one diabetic in the past) but dropped his hand, anyway. “Ah.” Hank frowned at the spread of food on the table, noting the number of sweet items and the detritus left on Dmitry's plate. “When was the last time you checked your glucose levels?”

“Healer Lawson,” Milos interrupted sharply. “You are not here to be Dmitry's doctor.”

Hank stiffened and turned to Milos. He barely kept from gritting his teeth as he asked, “Then why am I here?”

“Dmitry is going to be the one to track down all the materials you need for your project,” Milos said. “He is rather gifted in being able to discover even the most rarest of items.” Milos' smile flashed. “You could even say he is rather talented that way.” 

Hank looked back to Dmitry, who inclined his head.

“Are you a Dowser?” Hank asked curiously. 

“Nyet, no,” Dmitry said. “Although I've been accused of it, more than once. I'm merely very good at what I do.” He got to his feet. “Milos, I will be back tomorrow morning, as agreed. Now, I have another meeting to attend.” He said a couple of other things in Russian, which had Milos nodding before Dmitry turned away and walked back inside. A guard met him at the terrace door, and followed him out of sight.

Hank tried not to panic, seeing his solution to getting away from Milos was walking away was nearly more than he could handle. Only knowing that Dmitry said he would be back kept Hank in his seat, although he wasn't able to stop from staring after where he disappeared from his view.

“You are not to speak of the elixir to anyone,” Milos said threatening. 

Hank turned back to him. “I get it,” he said. He had figured as much.

Milos' hand clamped down onto Hank's right wrist, tightening with so much pressure that Hank had to reflexively used his craft to keep himself from bruising. The sense of something rotting flooded Hank's craft-senses and it took every ounce of control to keep himself from shuddering and yanking his arm away.

Milos waited until Hank met his eyes before he leaned so close that Hank smelled the scent of lingering coffee on his breath. Hank stayed still, and didn't lean away like he so desperately wanted to. Milos said harshly, “If Dmitry learns or even suspects of the existence of the elixir... you will have cost him his life.”

“I won't tell him,” Hank said stunned. He had expected his life to be threatened. That Milos would kill Dmitry, who didn't even know what was going on. It was horrifying. Hank couldn't keep back his shudder this time. “I won't tell anyone.”

Satisfaction flashed across Milos' face at Hank reaction. His hold on Hank's wrist tightened even more for a second before loosening. “Good, that's good, Hank.” Milos' smile was charming, almost sweet. Hank's jaw tightened at the use of his first name. He hesitated for a second and then unleashed his craft-senses to run more than surface scan on Milos. No matter how sick it made him feel, Hank had to learn what was wrong with the other man and confirm a theory. Hank was on shaky moral territory as the scan was a violation of Milos' privacy rights, but considering his circumstances...

Hank was in and out in about three seconds. When he came back to himself, he stared at Milos in horror, frozen in place by his discovery. It wasn't just Milos' bones that were weakening, bowing and brittle. His mind was also crumbling, misfiring. He was suffering from the third major symptom of his family genetic disease: dementia.

The dementia explained everything. 

Hank yanked his craft-senses back from Milos before his deepening pity made him do something stupid, like try to fix what was wrong with Milos. 

Milos continued, without noticing what Hank had done, “You shall see. Those who are loyal to me are treated well.” He patted the back of Hank's right hand before he finally moved away to Hank's mute relief. “Now eat! Enjoy the view.” He gestured out to the view of the city over the low wall of the terrace. 

Hank turned his head. His breath caught as he took in the sprawling and completely unfamiliar skyline and whatever illusions he'd been holding, that Milos had been lying to him about taking him out of his country, died abruptly.

Milos said softly, “You are privileged to have seen this. Budapest is a beautiful city in the summer.”

*-*-*-*

Dmitry didn't return for another two days. Hank had nearly convinced himself he'd imaged his Talent's glow on him except that he was still glowed when they met again.

Hank took those two days to think up a long list of ingredients for the elixir. He tried to stick to rare items but also ones that would be available to a man like the Count of St. Germain. Milos was paranoid, erratic, suffering from dementia and lost in a delusion but he wasn't an idiot. He wouldn't have gotten Hank to Budapest without being caught if he was stupid.

Milos also set down the ground rules before Hank met Dmitry again.

Hank was only to give Dmitry the list ingredients one at a time. Whenever Dmitry came back with an ingredient, Hank was to verify that it was what he needed before he gave him the next one on the list. Hank was never going to be left alone with Dmitry, if Milos wasn't there, then there would be no meeting. Milos also reminded Hank that if he even thought that Dmitry had learned about the elixir, or if Hank was so careless as to let the world slip past his lips, then Milos would shoot Dmitry without hesitation. 

Hank agreed, determined not to do anything to risk Dmitry's life, even as he furiously tried to think how he would ask the Russian man for his help. He was the _best_ solution according to Hank's Talent, but it would only work if Hank was able to do something about it. If he asked for help.

Hank finally got a window of opportunity on the fourth meeting, nearly two weeks since he first met Dmitry. Dmitry had just delivered the second ingredient, the sap of the world's oldest tree, when Milos cellphone began ringing. 

“Halló,” Milos said. He stiffened. “Boris,” he said, in a voice like Arctic winter.

Hank jerked in place, turning towards him. Milos' expression was... complicated. He looked like he didn't know whether to be glad or enraged that Boris was calling him. Milos' eyes flickered over to Hank and he covered the phone's mic with his hand before standing up, grabbing his cane and limping away from the table. He stopped at a distance that even if Hank had shouted, there was no way that Boris would have heard him. 

“We don't have much time.”

Hank jerked his attention back to Dmitry. Startled, he asked. “What?”

Dmitry looked cool and unconcerned as he watched Milos. “Boris is distracting him as much as he can. Where are you kept?”

Dmitry knew Boris. This was better than Hank could have imagined. “Downstairs,” Hank said quickly, explaining every turn and the number of staircases that always ended with him at the terrace. “Can you get me away from him?” Hank asked, trying to look as outwardly calm as he could, taking his cue from Dmitry's subdued body language. 

“This place is fortress. We have to time your extraction carefully,” Dmitry said quietly. “I am to warn you that it will take place tomorrow night, at 8:00.” He flickered his wrist so that Hank could read his watch. It was 9:35PM. Less than 24 hours, then. “Boris intends to draw Milos out by inviting him to dinner. With him will go half his security force. Be ready.”

“Yeah, okay,” Hank agreed. Then a worrying thought struck him. “Is Dieter with Boris? Does he know about the plan? He's Milos' informant.”

Dmitry's eyes widened and he looked down quickly, hiding his face away as Milos glanced over to them. “Are you sure?” he asked intensely, a thrum of energy radiated from him and surrounded Hank. Hank tensed wondering what Dmitry was doing, but whatever it was didn't harm him. “Could you be mistaken?”

“I'm sure. He was the one that drugged me. I _saw_ him.”

Dmitry let loose a low, harsh streak of Russian. The weird energy he had drawn around Hank subsided. “This changes things.”

Hank looked back at Milos, who was looking at them with an inscrutable expression. It made Hank nervous. “I don't think Dieter has told Milos yet. Or he would have moved me.” _Or killed me,_ Hank thought.

“We can't take the chance. Now I must go and take care of that piece of shit,” Dmitry said grimly. “Be alert, we may have to move as soon quickly, maybe as soon as midnight.”

“If it's too dangerous... don't risk lives,” Hank said softly. 

Surprise, flickered across Dmitry's face and something in the way he was looking at Hank changed. As if he was seeing Hank clearly for the first time. There was growing respect in Dmitry's face as he agreed, “Da, I understand.”

Milos limped back with his mouth in a sour twist. He held his cane in a white-knuckled grip. He radiated an air of barely restrained violence. His smile was a humorless slash. “Dmitry, my friend, I'm afraid this meeting will have to be reschedule for another day. I have a family matter to deal with.”

Dmitry stood up with a careless shrug. “It is your money, Milos. Contact me when you want me to return.” He walked out, without once glancing back at Hank.

Milos stared down at Hank, who tried not to show his nervousness and met Milos' gaze as steadily as he could.

There was something not quite sane in Milos' blue eyes, as if the bit of control he retained under his dementia was fraying away. “You... you'll stay in your room until I have need of you.”

Hank got to his feet. He was headed for the terrace door when Milos called out. “Hank... Boris will not get you back. Don't hope for otherwise. I would sooner see you dead than back in his hands.”

Hank's hands clenched into fists, but he was too angry to be afraid. Milos kept threatening his life like Hank didn't know how it was to live with a death sentence hanging over him. Hank didn't want to die, but he also had never been the kind of man to let fear of death control him. He wouldn't have been able to become a doctor otherwise, not with his Craft and all the danger that came with it.

Hank didn't bother to turn around as he said curtly, “I understand.” Then he stiffly walked away, leaving Milos behind.

*-*-*-*

Hank paced. Without a watch or clock he kept track of time by counting his heartbeats, trying to be ready like Dmitry had asked.

It was the only thing he could do, other than sitting and going crazy with impatience. Hank paced, stretched out his craft-senses so that he'd be warned of any approaching life signs. All he sensed was the usual two men guarding the door. But as he paced around the room, trying to figure out what he could do to help, he found himself thinking on everything which could go wrong.

Dieter could get a message to Milos to let him know about the rescue plan before Dmitry had a chance to stop him. Or Milos could know already and even now be preparing a counter-attack. Or even if Dieter didn't get the chance and Boris was able to draw Milos away, there was still one aspect of the rescue plan which gnawed on Hank's conscience. Simply, there would be people put in danger; people who would be trying to save him. Hank had no doubt that the ones involved would be Boris' trusted security forces since they were really good at their jobs. But they were people whom Hank _knew_ , Peter (the Shift Crafter who liked to run around the estate in feline form), David (who liked to shift his skin until blended into the background to spook anyone that wandered close) and Caliel (the security chief and an Elemental who like to entertain the staff's kids with water animals). All the other Shifters and even the non-powered ex-Mossad who made up the security firm contracted to protect Boris were people who Hank had met and talked with. The thought of all those men and women putting themselves in danger and risking their lives on his behalf made Hank feel nauseated. 

Hank had to do _something_ to give them an advantage.

Around 11:30 PM, if he hadn't completely lost track of time, Hank had an idea. It was a dangerous idea and he honestly didn't know if it would even work. Or if it did that he would be able to pull it off without killing himself. But he couldn't not _try._

Like he'd done countless times before Hank could merge Talent and Crafting powers together, but instead of using to scan a human body he would go outwards, letting his talent find the people in this house. He hoped his talent would be able to drive his craft-senses forward in the way they never could do on their own, the same way he had used it in the past to find Boris' mutation, only this time he would push past his Craft's limits and across wood and stone to find the living human energy. 

And then Hank would put those people to sleep. 

Hank had knocked patients out in the past when anesthesia didn't arrive fast enough. It didn't take much of his power so he knew he could use that trick often without it draining him to dangerously lows levels of energy. Yet the main problem was that he had always done it before through skin-to-skin contact and he'd never sought out to influence an entire group all at once. He wasn't even a hundred percent certain his idea would work. But if he could even affect a few of Milos' men before his rescuers arrived...taking those guns out of the equation would be worth the cost of him trying.

Hank sat down in the middle of his cell and closed his eyes. He called back on visualization techniques and breathing exercises he hadn't had to use since he'd first mastered his craft. He needed to be very calm. He needed to be perfect in his control and concentration.

Hank breathed in and out for several minutes for reaching for his power. Hank focused on his talent, calling the power from his blood. _I have a problem,_ he thought, the words almost a ritual, _I need to find everyone in this house who works for Milos._ The power of his talent shifted, as if uncertain of where to move. Hank unfurled his craft-senses, heat coursing through his veins as it flooded outwards in an invisible wave of energy. 

The power of his blood met with the increasing heat of his craft. And for a long moment his Craft and his Talent twisted around each other as if uncertain on how they would work together for this task before finally merging. 

That's when Hank saw in his mind's eye two more life signs coming down the hall to him. One was Milos and the other was one of his guards, the British blond. Hank barely had the time to get to his feet when Milos burst into the room making the door slam hard against the wall. 

“What's going on?” Hank asked, trying to focus on Milos as even as his power continued to spread outwards, flowing down hallways and up staircases. It made Hank feel stretched out, like a rubber-band reaching its breaking point. He ignored the feeling and kept going.

Milos shot Hank a scathing look. “Do you think I wouldn't discover the truth? It is no mere coincidence that Boris chose now to visit Budapest. Not after he hasn't seen me in over two years. I _know_ he is here for _you_. There's no other explanation.”

“He's your family. Maybe he just wants to see you.”

“He is no family of mine,” Milos breathed out, his voice murderous. His eyes were flames. “And he's proved to be that he feels the same by keeping the cure to himself.” He ordered the guards who'd come into the room with him. “Bring him. We are moving to the secondary site.” 

All three guards had their guns trained on Hank. One said gruffly, “Come along, Healer.”

Hank stared at them. The thought of living under Milos' thumb for another day was unbearable.

“No,” Hank said simply, and did something he'd never done before. He went on the offensive. 

Hank's power snapped towards his captors in four filaments of white light which moved as fast as lightning. These men were no Crafters, they couldn't feel his power humming through the air and sinking into their bodies. But even if they had the ability Hank simply gave them no time to react. At once, Hank wrapped his power around their nervous system, sending the guards to sleep. The men slumped to the grounds in slow motion. Hank kept a hold on their muscles so that they landed gently on the floor instead of hitting with full force.

Milos didn't say a word, as soon as he saw what happened to his men he reacted, striking at Hank with a long vicious knife he had pulled from his suit jacket.

Hank dodged, managing to move in time to avoid most of the blade. Pain lanced along his arm where Milos grazed him, until Hank made the nerve ends stop sending him pain signals. Simultaneously, Hank realized that Milos' disease had to be making him resistant to Hank's power. The merged energies of his Craft and Talent moved in Milos like molasses, slowed down to a crawl at the feeling of wrongness and rot. Hank moved back from Milos, gritted his teeth and tried another approach. 

Milos lunged again.

Hank whipped the filament of energy in another direction and locked Milos' major joints, freezing the man in place. Off balance, Milos fell over, crashing onto the carpeted floor with a loud thump. Reflexively, Hank tried soothing the flare of pain Milos felt at the impact but he was only partially successful. 

Milos snarled, fighting the lock on his body with maddened will. His muscles strained to move him. Hank gritted his teeth and forced him to keep still. He crouched down next to Milos, ignoring the way his head spun a bit, and checked the platinum watch on Milos' wrist. The hands read 11:51.

If Dmitry was right about them needing to move tonight then the rescue would start soon.

“How long do you think you can keep this up, Hank?” Milos asked, panting with effort. Sweat beaded his brow, slicking his dark hair to his forehead. He had somehow managed to keep a hold of the knife with his fingers tight around the hilt. “My men have orders to kill you if you leave this room without me. They will shoot you, I promise.”

“So you've told me,” Hank said in disgust, taking several steps away from him. He headed for the door which Milos had so carelessly left open. “But your men are asleep on the floor. I'm not stopping until I'm out.” He left the room, for the first time of his own volition, relishing in how good such a simple act felt. With shaking hands he locked the door behind him as Milos howled vile curses after him.

Hank's increasing awareness of the human lives in the large house was growing, more and more with every second. Yet the stretched feeling in his mind went from uncomfortable to painful to agonizing in only a couple of minutes after he left the room. Since Hank didn't recognized any of the lives he was touching with his power, Hank decided to play it safe and lulled them to sleep. He was careful, just like he had been with the guards, to make sure that they slowly slumped to the ground. At worse they would wake up with some bruises, but at least they wouldn't have broken bones or concussions.

Hank forced five more people into sleep. Then two others, a man and a young woman. 

Hank's head throbbed and his vision darkened around the edges. He felt his blood vessels in his nose burst under the pressure. Absently, he wiped away at the wetness, tasting the salt-copper tang of blood as it dripped down to his lips. But when Hank considered stopping, that he was forcing himself to do too much for no reason, he sensed a change in the house. 

He didn't know how he could feel an inanimate object, but three stories above him, Hank felt a window pane shatter into several dozen pieces as a metal cylinder was lobbed through it. Tear gas started spreading with a rapid hiss. Two men started coughing, their lungs burning and their vision tearing. Hank had to force to ignore and not to alleviate their suffering. Then he felt them reaching for weapons, their muscles shifting their arms as they went for their guns. 

So he quickly forced them to sleep. 

The stabs of pains that went through Hank's temples as the men hit the marble floor made him double over and dry heave. As he shuddered through the aftereffects, Hank felt the arrival of familiar life signs. Crafters he _knew_ were moving into the house.

Two men, David and Marcus. Then three more and a woman, Joseph, Peter and Jana. All Shifters. Then an Elemental walked in. Caleil, Boris' head of security. Hank sensed Caliel giving orders over a radio, as he rapidly moved into the house. Almost directly at his heels was Dmitry.

And... and... Hank swore he felt Boris... but that _couldn't_ be right.

“What the hell is he doing here?” Hank mumbled to himself. He forced himself to find the life signs of Milos' people in his friends' path, putting them to sleep as quickly as he dared without risking more backlash.

And without warning, Hank reached his limits

Hank came back to himself with a stronger taste of blood flooding his mouth, his chin on the carpet and with his heart stuttering in his chest. It took everything he had to make sure that his heart kept beating. The electrical signals were misfiring and weak. Hank tried to keep his heart in rhythm but his Craft moved sluggishly. For a couple of terrifying seconds, Hank's heart skipped several beats as his attention wavered. He forced it back into rhythm on sheer willpower. It was the last thing he could do. He was spent.

Then Hank lost track of time. 

The next thing he knew and saw was Caliel, his familiar gray beard filled Hank's line of sight, as he gently flipped Hank onto his back. He also heard Dmitry nearby as he cursed loudly in Russian, as Hank felt a set warm hands checking his pulse at his neck while another checked him for injuries. Hank tried to focus on the men, who were with Caliel, but his attention wandered as they were busy doing something next to him.

“He's alive,” Caliel said gruffly, as he looked up. “Barely.” 

“Hank!”

Hank managed a slow blink as Boris appeared above him. He looked angry and worried. And scared. “Bo-- Boris,” Hank managed to whisper, trying to raise his trembling fingers to touch Boris to reassure himself he was really there and not a figment of his imagination. He couldn't craft-sense him. He couldn't be certain Boris was really there. He couldn't craft-sense anyone or anything. 

Hank felt Boris grab his right hand and squeeze it tight. “It's alright, Hank. We are getting you out.”

“We have Lawson,” Caliel was saying into radio headset rig he was wearing. “David, start the extraction plan.”

Hank's vision went blurry and he felt disoriented as he was moved onto a stretcher. 

Time lapsed again. At one point Hank could have sworn he heard Evan's voice, shouting and distraught, which nearly stirred him to sit up to try to calm him down, but the moment Hank tried to move... it was the final straw on the demands Hank had been putting on his body. 

Everything went black.


	5. Chapter 5

Hank slowly woke up again with a strong feeling of deja vu. It took a while for awareness to come to him and everything ached. Hank would swear that every part of him from his toe nails to the ends of his hair were throbbing with pain in time with his heartbeat. It took a while before the subsided enough that he felt he could risk opening his eyelids. 

When he did Hank found himself staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling with intricately carved wood panels. He frowned at it absently, trying to remember if he had seen them before. With a sinking feeling he realized he had no idea where he was or how he had gotten here. Again.

Panicked, Hank jerked up, and nearly blacked out as his brain tried to leak out of his ears. He clutched his forehead and groaned. Instinctively, he reached for his Craft to stop his pain but nothing happened except that his entire body twinged. Under the aching of his muscles, Hank felt was a hollowness where the heat of his power should have been resting. 

Hank blinked and reached for his craft again. Nothing.

“Hank! Oh thank god! You're awake!”

Hank lifted his head to stare at Evan, who grinned at him from a high-backed chair right next to the bed. He looked entirely too cheerful, wearing the sort of manic expression Evan got when he managed to talk to a beautiful woman without making a complete fool of himself. Hank was certain his brother still made a partial fool even on those occasions. Hank absently remembered through clouded thoughts that Evan also wore that look when he was trying to hide how scared he really was, when Evan was well aware he was on the edge of disaster but trying to get through it without falling apart.

Hank was felt terrible that he was the reason his brother was wearing that expression.

Evan leaned over and wrapped his arms around Hank, flattening the breath out of him. “I'm so happy you're okay, big brother,” he choked out, in a watery voice.

Hank hugged him back, ignoring the ache in his muscles to revel in the warmth of holding his family. His eyes stung in relief at the fact that he got the chance... more than once he'd feared he would never get the opportunity again. Hank's throat was dry but he managed to whisper, “Missed you too.” 

Hank had missed him so much in fact that he hadn't realized until this moment how much he had been deliberately trying not to think about his brother. Or whether he would ever get to see him again. Closed his eyes and just reveled in holding his brother. After several more seconds, Hank opened his eyes and added jokingly, “Need those ribs to breathe, little brother.”

“Right, right,” Evan said, jerking away. Hank grinned, deciding not to comment on Evan's wet eyes because his own weren't any drier.

Hank rubbed at his aching eyelids, discreetly wiping away the tears. “Got any water?” he rasped out. 

“Here.”

Hank opened his eyes to see Evan holding out a glassful of water, full of mostly melted ice. “Thanks.” 

His brother helped him sit up against the headboard. Evan also held the cup when Hank's weak grip nearly dropped the water all over his lap. Hank managed a few swallows before he pulled the cup away.

“You know, I've changed my mind.”

Hank raised his eyebrows at the non sequitur. 

“About you working for Boris,” Evan clarified, as he set the glass onto a side table. “When I first told you to take his job offer, I didn't think that this would happen. I should have listened to you when you said you didn't want the job.” The weight of Evan's guilt was practically a physical force in the room. Evan wrapped his arms around himself and his head dropped, which were always warning signs to Hank that his little brother as feeling awful.

“Hey, hey, no, Evan. This wasn't your fault, okay. This wasn't anyone's fault but Milos',” Hank protested. He frowned and added, “And Dieter's.” 

“Yeah, I didn't see that one coming,” Evan admitted, looking up. “When Dmitry came by and all but shanked the little guy I thought he'd gone crazy.”

Hank's eyebrows went up. “Dmitry did what?” he asked, startled.

“He yelled all these Russian things which made Boris go white, before he explained that you had told him that Dieter had helped kidnap you.”

“Yeah, it's true. He was the that drugged me.”

“Well, that's kinda the point where I wanted Dmitry to shank him,” Evan glowered darkly. 

“Evan.”

“Not kill him! Just... make him suffer a little,” he explained. Evan brightened, “Not that Dmitry needed to do anything. I don't know what he said to him – it was all in German – but Boris put the fear of God into him and Dieter admitted everything. He looked terrified.” Evan leaned close to whisper, “I'm not ashamed to admit it: Boris scares the crap out of me.”

Hank grinned. Evan's fear of Boris was something he found incredibly funny since he didn't find Boris at all frightening. Pushy, yes. Arrogant because he was entirely too used to getting his own way, of course, and stubborn enough to give Hank a run for his money, sure, but hardly scary. He was a good guy.

“So, you and Boris,” Evan began again, his grin teasing. “You never told me that you and Boris were together.”

Badly startled, Hank choked on air. “What?” he sputtered.

“You really should have told me, Hank! I wouldn't have nagged you so much to come with me to those parties if I'd known.”

“Whoa, Evan, stop. There's no me and Boris. He's my patient, Evan. Nothing more,” Hank said shortly, although he couldn't prevent his cheeks from flushing with heat and he mentally swore. Of all the times for his craft powers not to be working. “You know I can't date my patients.”

The skeptical look on Evan's face made him look away. Boris... no matter what he was the man's doctor. There was a line there which Hank was never going to cross. As Boris' doctor it would feel too much like he was exploiting the other man if he allowed their relationship to move over from professional to something more personal. Even if Boris was the first to disagree. 

“Does _he_ know that?” Evan asked.

Hank looked back to his brother. 

“Because if you thought my reaction to finding out you were missing was bad...” Evan trailed off. “And it was pretty bad,” he whispered, his face paled with remembered fear. Evan shook his head rapidly, as if desperate to get rid of those memories. “Boris freaked out. He didn't react like a patient to losing his doctor. Or even like somebody losing a friend. It was more than that, Hank.”

“I'm his doctor, that's all I can be,” Hank said, his tone final. Evan looked like he wasn't going to let the topic go until Hank glared at him and he subsided. “How did you guys find me?” Hank asked, hoping to distract his brother.

Evan's smile returned, this time bright with pride. “I found you.”

Baffled, Hank frowned as he eyed his brother. “How did you manage to do that?”

“My Talent,” Evan grinned. “It turns out I can do more than just find metal.”

Hank stared. “Really?” He always thought his own dowsing talent was the only one with the idiosyncratic bent of the two of them.

Evan dropped his right hand onto Hank's shoulder as he leaned closer to his brother. “All this time I thought it just helped me find treasure.” He squeezed Hank's shoulder. “I never realized I could do more because I always knew where you were and that you were there for me. All my life, I've known how to find you if I ever needed you.” Evan's face darkened. Lingering devastation brought tears to his blue eyes. “Until I couldn't anymore. I couldn't find you, or your car. And your cellphone was off, and the GPS tracker wouldn't show where you were. And no matter who I called, no one knew where you had gone. The last time I felt like that, Henry,” Evan said somberly. “Was when Mom died.”

“Oh, Evan,” Hank said, pulling his brother into another hug.

They held each other tightly, and with a desperation that spoke silent words of how aware each of them was at how very close they had come to losing the other.

“I'm implementing a new rule,” Evan mumbled into Hank's shoulder. “From now on, every and I do mean _every_ single time you leave the house, you are going to text me to let me know where you're going, and when you're supposed to come back. And then when you do get back, you let me know you made it home safely. With a photo attachment as proof!”

“What if I'm just doing a grocery run for some milk?” Hank asked, his voice teasing. Actually, the rule sounded like a good one to him right now. And it probably would continue to sound good for the next ten years. 

“Every time, Henry,” Evan insisted. He pulled back from Hank to say in a completely serious tone, “It's either you keep me updated on your itinerary or you get outfitted with permanent GPS tracker.”

“Haha, very funny.”

“Who says I'm kidding,” Evan said, raising his right pointer finger at Hank. “Promise me.”

“Okay, okay,” Hank agreed, holding his palms up in surrender.

“Good,” Evan stood up. “I promised Boris I'd go find him to let him know when you woke up.”

“When did you two get so chummy?” Hank asked, tilting his head as he studied his brother. Evan had always made it a point to avoid Boris as much as possible after they had first been introduced. “I thought you said he scared you.”

“Oh, he does. Now, even more than before,” Evan said, nodding furiously. “But I also know he'll just destroy anyone who looks at you funny. As your little brother I'm exempt, covered and protected.”

Before Hank could even begin to absorb that little disconcerting detail, Evan disappeared through the bedroom door, leaving it ajar behind him to Hank's relief. _Great, so now I have issues with closed doors to deal with,_ he mentally grumbled to himself. Hank wasn't looking forward to what other emotional landmines were bound to surprise him in upcoming days and weeks.

*-*-*-*

When Boris walked into the bedroom, Hank was overwhelmed by a surge of relief at the sight him that it took him a long moment to realize that Evan hadn't followed him back in. He mentally cursed his brother's meddling and wondered if it was too late to get himself declared an only child. Probably, although he was definitely going to look into it when he got back home.

Boris sat down in the chair which Evan had been using, right next to Hank's bedside. They looked at each other silently for a long moment. Then Boris started to reach out but stopped himself in mid-reach, dropping his hand to his knee before he touched Hank.

Hank was more disappointed than he liked admitting, even if only to himself.

“Are you alright?” Hank finally asked, his concern growing the longer he let his eyes drink his fill of the other man. Boris looked... worn. He was still impeccably put together as always in a charcoal gray suit with a dark blue undershirt but there were dark circles under his reddened eyes. Boris also appeared like he had lost weight over the last couple of weeks, as if he'd been skipping meals. Even Boris' expensive suit had more wrinkles than Hank had ever seen before and he got the distinct impression that Boris had been wearing his current set of clothing for a couple of days at a time.

Boris huffed with disbelief. Shaking his head, he said, “Hank... du bist wirklich erstaunlich.”

Hank blinked, not comprehending a word.

“You are truly amazing,” Boris translated. “You were kidnapped by a member of _my_ family, you nearly die, and the first question you think to ask me is to check if _I'm_ alright?” With shaking hands, Boris cupped Hank's jaw. “Yes. You are here. You're alive and safe again. I'm alright.”

When Boris kissed him, Hank really should have been it coming. Boris was all but telegraphing his intention but he'd been distracting by the trembling in Boris' fingers, Hank had been trying to reach outwards with his unresponsive Craft to find out what was wrong, so that the feel of Boris' lips against his and the scratching of his beard on Hank's chin caught Hank flatfooted and with parted lips.

_Oh._

Hank's hands convulsed, torn between wanting to pull Boris closer and shoving him away. He was his doctor, he couldn't--! 

But... in that moment, he didn't feel like Boris' doctor and... Hank had been so desperate with worry for him, during all those days with Milos. Knowing Dieter was with him made Hank as scared for him as he'd been for himself. So now with Boris _kissing_ him, it was like a physical reminder that Boris was alright and with him. That they had both survived the last couple of weeks.

Hank _needed_ to kiss him back. 

And so he did. He pressed his hands to the back of Boris' fine silver hair and held him as he kissed him fiercely.

For what felt like only a second, and a small eternity, Hank indulged in the warmth building inside him, in the flash of affection and lust that he had been trying to ignore because his professional and personal ethics demanded it. 

At least until he finally pushed Boris back. “I'm sorry,” Hank said ruefully, his mouth feeling hot, making too aware of his own lips. Hank had to drag his eyes away from Boris' mouth. It was too tempting otherwise. It weakened his resolve. “I shouldn't have done that.” He should have stopped it. He knew better.

Boris' hands were still on Hank's jaw. Stubborn fire flashed in his blue eyes before regret filled them again, and he dropped his hands away. “No, you're right. It would not do to set your recovery back as it is. The doctors who examined you were ardent that you be allowed to rest.”

“That's not what I meant,” Hank said dryly. He resisted the urge to rub at his jaw, his skin felt cold without Boris' palms. “I'm your doctor, I--”

“You _were_ my doctor, Hank.”

Hank's head rocked back as is the words had been a physical blow. He stared Boris in wide-eyed disbelief. “You're firing me?” He couldn't keep the hurt out of his voice although he tried. This was the last thing he had expected.

“I thought it best, you were kidnapped due to me. If you hadn't been in my employment than you would never have been taken.”

 _Okay, the deja vu feeling is coming back,_ Hank thought. Clearly Evan wasn't the only one blaming himself. Guilt was bowing Boris' shoulders, making him look even more tired. It made Hank wonder when was the last time he had gotten a good night's sleep. Probably since he had kidnapped, Hank realized a split second later. And oddly, this realization helped to lance the hurt he was feeling at being fired. Again. 

“I have tripled your severance pay,” Boris continued. “And my private plane is at your disposal to take you back to the United States. You are, of course, welcome to remain at Shadow Pond for as long as you'd like and--”

Hank threw up a hand. “Boris! Stop! Just stop. I...I don't need you pay me extra, okay. The amount that we agreed to in the contract is enough.” More than enough actually, which is another reason that tripling the amount sounded crazy to him. And that was even factoring in the money which came from that gold bar which Boris had given him when they had first met. With all his expenses, Hank still had quite a lot of money left in his bank accounts. “I don't need you to give me more.”

“Considering the circumstances--”

“--the kiss or the kidnapping?” Hank interjected, raising his eyebrows. He was honestly curious when Boris had come to this decision.

“I have increased security of this house, neither Milos nor his men will be able to hurt you,” Boris continued, ignoring Hank's question. “He's in custody with the Hungarian police. But Milos is only one of many in my family who could do me harm through you. And Milos was the one cousin I suspected the least in your kidnapping.”

Hank paled, but flattened his lips and said stubbornly, “Yes, but the situation isn't normal. Milos is sick.”

Abruptly, Boris stilled. “What do you mean?” he asked, dread making his voice heavy.

“Your family disease, he has it too.”

“Ja, the bone deterioration, I've been kept apprais---”

“And dementia,” Hank said, interrupting.

Instantly, Boris shook his head in denial “Nein, that's not possible. Dementia has always been the third symptom, after the muscle atrophy. It doesn't occur for years after the bone deterioration begins. It was the same with my father, and with Milos' father. Milos has only been sick for two years. It is far too soon for him to have dementia.”

Hank didn't need to have his craft-senses working again to read the depth of Boris' rising fear. Boris had told him once about seeing his father's health failing. Hank only had to hear it once to understand how badly his family genetic disease haunted Boris' life. 

Hank's voice was soft with sympathy as he said, “The disease is the reason for Milos' behavior. He believes that you have a cure and that you were keeping it to yourself. He thought you'd hired me to make you more of the elixir made by the Count of St. – ah –”

“St. Germain,” Boris finished, his voice a hushed horrified whisper. He closed his eyes and pinched at the bridge of his nose in such a pained gesture that Hank couldn't help reaching out to touch him, reflexively reaching for his craft to try to help him. The jarring feeling of emptiness where his Craft's power should be took Hank by ugly surprise again, but he didn't let it stop him from settling his hand on Boris' shoulders.

“I'll be the last to say that Milos isn't dangerous,” Hank said quietly. “But what your cousin needs isn't prison but a hospital. He needs medical care and monitoring. He needs evaluation to find out how far his mental capacities have deteriorated. He needs _you._ ”

Boris nodded slowly. “Ja, it appears so. I have been too angry to face him, but now it seems I have no choice.” He stood up slowly and Hank's hand slipped from his shoulder. Boris caught Hank's wrist and held his hand lightly between his own. His troubled blue eyes caught Hank like magnets. “Thank you, Hank. I – I am more relieved than I can express that you were not permanently harmed at the hands of my family.” He stepped away. “You must forgive me for cutting our time together so short. I would have liked to have spent more time with you before you left Budapest but I suspect that most of my attention will be spent dealing with Milos, our family and settling his affairs.”

And what could Hank say to that? “Boris...”

Hank could practically see the barriers come down, as Boris straightened and every emotion was locked behind an icy wall. 

“Farewell, Hank.” Then Boris turned and walked out of the room.. 

The finality of his goodbye hit Hank like a two-by-four bringing with it the sudden and grim realization that it was entirely possible that he would never see Boris again. For a long moment, he couldn't breathe. Then it was like a switch was flipped in his brain and Hank was flooded with a determination that he wouldn't let that happen.

He wasn't the man's doctor anymore, after all. Every excuse he had given to himself no longer applied.

*-*-*-*

“I can't believe Boris fired you,” Evan repeated, for what felt like the hundredth time since Hank had told his brother the news.

Two days after he'd woken up, Hank was actually able to move without risking falling on his face. And a day after he managed to triumphantly walk out of the room on his own Hank found himself talking to a couple of Hungarian law enforcement officers, explaining what happened to him, then doing it again for a team from Interpol who kept making noises about human trafficking, only getting more excited by their theory upon learning he was a Healing Crafter (apparently Crafters were a favorite target for human trafficking which was a statistic Hank would have been happier not knowing). Barely four days since Hank had talked with Boris, and not getting the chance to see him again, Hank had been whisked away to the airport. Evan never left his side. Although, he'd looked very green when Hank had been talking to the Hungarians and Interpol agents about his experience with Milos. At one point he even had to put his head down between his legs when one Interpol agent gave Evan the grim number of how many Crafters went missing in Europe every year. Hank really wished she hadn't shared that information because Evan went back muttering about tracking devices.

“So you've said. Repeatedly,” Hank grunted, annoyed. He eyed the mini-bar which came with the private jet and wondered if Boris had it stocked with enough alcohol so that he could drown out his brother. Or maybe just drown him. _Tempting, so tempting,_ he thought.

“It's just... you didn't see him when we were looking for you,” Evan continued blithely ignoring his brother's black mood and how Hank was increasingly seeing the appeal of fratricide. 

“You've said that too.”

“I just can't believe he would fired you. I didn't think that he would let you out of his sight once you woke up. I thought that I would have to defend your virtue or something and now--”

“Evan!” Hank shouted in exasperation. 

Evan subsided and stayed quiet for several minutes to Hank's relief. 

“Hank, have you considered the fact that maybe Boris firing you could be the best thing that could've happen?”

“I will have you thrown off the plane, I swear.”

“No, no, no, just listen. You said you weren't going to do anything with Boris because doctor-patient ethics stuff. But... you're not his doctor anymore!”

Hank looked away.

Evan straightened and leaned over. “Wait, you've already thought of that haven't you?”

Hank sighed and explained, “Boris is worried about what other members of his family. I think he figures cutting me out from his life entirely is the only way to keep me safe from them.” Which was, well... not paranoid exactly considering what had happened, but it seemed unlikely. Milos had Hank kidnapped because he had been under the delusion that Hank could create him a cure for his disease. It was such a unique set of circumstances which Hank didn't think it would ever happen again.

Evan leaned back and frowned thoughtfully. “Okay... I hate to say it, but maybe Boris has got a point. His cousin _kidnapped_ you! His family is crazy and dangerous.” Evan paled. “What if next time I can't find you? Or we're too late?”

Hank patted his brother's shoulder and got up to grab a drink, nodding absently to Evan's panicky predictions of doom. He only cut him off when Evan seemed to be seriously considering the benefit of Hank getting surgically implanted with a GPS device. There were a lot of things which Hank was willing to do for his brother, but there were limits.

*-*-*-*

Hank continued to stay in Boris' guest house at Shadow Pond for mostly one reason. He didn't have anywhere else to go. He had ended his lease of his apartment in the city when he'd been hired by Boris. He could have moved in with Evan, as his brother had offered Hank the use of a futon, but Hank didn't think he was that far gone yet. He had the money to pay for a decent place although the height of summer in the Hamptons was possibly the worst time to go apartment hunting. So he was willing to take Boris up on the offer to stay.

And... this was the part that was harder to admit, even if only to himself, but he was hoping that Boris would come back from Europe before the summer ended. Not that Hank knew what he would end up saying to the man. He wanted to see him. To check up on him, and double-check how he was handling the situation with Milos. Hank knew that seeing his cousin suffering under their shared family disease had to be stirring all manner of nightmares for Boris. Hank wanted to help him, however he could.

“Have you even moved since I left you on Tuesday?” Evan asked, squinting down a Hank from over the arm of the couch.

“Yes,” Hank said. He held up the nearly empty brown bottle of beer. “I need to get up for more and to restock the fridge.” Not that he needed to go far. There was an amazing grocery delivery company which brought him everything he checked off on their website. Including more beer.

Evan's expression twisted with worry and he shoved at Hank's head, forcing Hank to move before his brother sat on him. “Hank, what's going on? I was half-expecting to come back from work and find out that you had already found another job, but I checked your computer. You're not even looking!”

“Considering what happened the last time...” Hank muttered.

“Okay, good point,” Evan said, grimacing. His expression softened, “What's really going on, Henry?”

 _Augh, the dreaded first name._ Hank set down the bottle of beer on the table top, being careful to put the bottle on the coaster (the house and the furniture wasn't his so he was trying to be careful to take of it). He stared at the bottle for a moment trying to figure out how to explain that he'd lost his Craft. It had been over a week since he woke up without his power and it still hadn't returned. His Talent was back. Hank had been dizzy with relief when he woke up to see the familiar limned white glow around his car keys when he couldn't find them only three days ago. Yet his Healing Craft, a power which had been a part of him and a part of his identity since he had become an adult, was unresponsive, no matter what he tried. And while the sense of emptiness inside him had slowly faded, Hank still felt like he had stretched himself out beyond his limits. He didn't think he would ever go back to normal.

How he felt made Hank wonder if there was some truth to one of the more outrageous theory on the origin of Crafters. Some people thought that Craft power came from the soul, the way that Talents came from the body, from family genetics. It did feel like he had taken some internal damage, but he had himself checked by a doctor on his second day back in the States, and all his test results came back green across the board. Physically there was nothing wrong with him.

Hank had the sinking feeling that whatever damage he'd done to himself, to his Craft, was irreversible. He just wasn't ready to face the fact that he was a Crafter without any Craft. But if there was one person on the planet who deserved to know...

“My Healing Craft is gone.”

Evan's eyes widened. “What?”

Hank hunched forward, his hands dangling between his knees. “After – after Budapest, I haven't been able to use my craft. I can't feel anything with my craft-senses. It's like I burned out my power, Evan. I keep hoping it'll come back but so far nothing.” Hank huffed a humorless laugh. “I can't even heal the stubbed toe I got last night.”

Evan frowned. “Is that even possible?”

“I have no idea.” Hank tried to research the possibility when he'd first got back. As far as he'd been able to find, no Crafter had ever just lost their craft like he had. When someone set aside their crafting power and never used it again it took a couple of years to fade away, Craft didn't just vanish overnight. And for Healing Crafters, they usually died when they used too much of their power like Hank had done to force Milos' people to sleep. So Hank surviving was unusual. Neither had he been able to find any reference on a Crafter who also had a Talent, much less of one who'd tied their crafting power to their Talent ability. Hank was at such a loss that he was becoming more and more tempted to contact some of those Craft-rights groups in case they had information which wasn't shared with public sources.

“But you're okay, right?” 

Hank nodded. 

Evan's frown transformed into a beaming grin. “Then...then this is great news!”

“Evan,” Hank groaned, although not really surprised by his brother's reaction. Evan had never fully accepted the dangers posed by Hank's Craft. Before Hank could explain to him exactly why it _wasn't_ a good thing and how lousy he was feeling over losing such a big piece of his self-identity, the doorbell rang. Bewildered over who could be at the door Hank got to his feet. “I'll get that.” 

“We're not done, Hank,” Evan said, following after him.

Hank opened the door.

A beautiful, tall woman of Indian descent wearing a fashionable dress in sunset orange beamed at him from the other side of the door. “Divya Katdare,” she said firmly, as she held out her hand. “Dr. Lawson, I'm here to be your P.A.”

“You hired a personal assistant?” Evan asked, looking over Hank's shoulder. “Wow,” he added under his breath once he got a good look at Divya.

“Physician's Assistant,” Divya corrected sharply, her dark eyes narrowing as she glanced at Evan.

Confused, Hank shook her hand. “I'm sorry, Ms. Katdare –”

“Divya, please.”

“– I think there's a misunderstanding,” Hank said. “I'm not hiring a P.A.”

Divya's expression brightened. “But you will once your start your practice.”

Hank blinked twice, taken aback. Confused he asked, “What practice?”

“As a concierge doctor, of course! Your number has been handed out all over the Hamptons. You come with the highest recommendations I've ever seen!”

“What?” Hank asked, alarmed. 

That's when Hank's cell phone started ringing. 

*-*-*-*

The weekend was one of the most confusing, and yet thrilling two days that Hank had had as a doctor since those first few days when he first started working at Brooklyn Mercy. He was called by five different people, all whom needed a doctor, and all whom told him that they didn't trust the local hospital and would much rather have him treat them.

The idea of being a concierge doctor, as much as he reflexively denied interest in doing it, turned out to fit him remarkably well. Being a doctor who made house calls felt like the kind of job he'd been waiting his whole life to do. 

Having patients again also served to remind Hank that he didn't need to be a Crafter in order to do his job. His passion was being a doctor, being a Healer had always been an advantage to his calling but the power wasn't necessary to do his job. The reminder did more to soothe him than all the research he had done.

So on Sunday, with Evan and Divya's encouragement he admitted that he was interested in being a concierge doctor, and in finding out whether or not he could make it work. What Hank did not expect was for Evan to come up with the entire concept of HankMed. It took much longer for Evan to talk him around to that idea.

*-*-*-*

A few days later, Hank felt the faint trickles of his Crafting power returning when he used it to stave off a tension headache. He was so relieved he didn't even protest as Evan continued his presentation on the business model he had come up for HankMed for the rest of the day. 

Although, admittedly, he didn't really pay that much attention either.

*-*-*-*

Boris returned to Shadow Pond, three weeks before the end of the summer and only two weeks since Divya had showed up on Hank's doorstep. Hank hadn't even noticed he had come back at first, as Boris had returned at some point during the night when he'd been sleeping. Hank first realized Boris was in Shadow Pond was when he had gotten up early, wanting to go for a run before his day started and he saw the convoy of black town cars parked before the one of the main entrances into the mansion. The Shifters guarding the perimeter greeted him with respectful nods, letting him into the mansion without any hesitation. Although quite a few stopped him to ask him how he was doing, which Hank really appreciated.

They also told Hank where to find Boris, without him having to ask them. 

Boris was in his favorite office, which Hank had learned was the one which Boris preferred when he wasn't trying to impress others with his power and money. Hank was surprised he was there, he would have guessed the man would have been enjoying his usual breakfast outdoors, but in retrospect it made sense that Boris would be busy. 

Hank knocked on the door to the office.

“Come in.”

Hank walked in and saw Boris frowning down at a stack of papers on his desk. He was wearing eyeglasses and while he was more neatly dressed and looked like he'd been eating regularly than the last time Hank had seen him, Boris still looked tired. 

Boris looked up at the sound of the door opening. At once, Hank could see the impact his presence had on him. Boris' entire expression lit up with suppressed joy.

“Hank,” Boris said, his smile brightening up his features. He lowered the pen he had been holding down on the desktop. “I didn't expect to be seeing you again so soon.” 

“Likewise,” Hank agreed, unable to resist smiling, warmed to down to his toes by Boris' delight. “From the way you were talking I thought you would be spending the rest of the summer, or longer, in Europe.”

“Ja, as did I, but it turns out that I had more allies among members of my family than I expected,” Boris said as he stood up from his desk, walking around it. The corners of Boris' eyes crinkled as he smiled deeply down at Hank. 

Hank's breath caught in his throat as he wondered if Boris wanted to kiss him. Because... _he_ wanted to kiss Boris. 

But Boris only pressed his hand against the small of Hank's back he steered him towards one of the white couches. “You look to be in much better health than how I last saw you. I am very glad.”

“Yeah, I've recovered. Um, I'm not interrupting you am I? I could come back later...” Hank asked awkwardly, as he sank into the cushions. Boris sat down next to him, so close that the press of his thigh was a pleasant and distracting heat against Hank's leg. 

“No, no, it's merely paperwork from my lawyers. Getting Milos to the United States has created a mountain range of red tape, all which I must read before I sign, and I currently have no personal assistant to help manage it all,” Boris said, grimacing at the reminder of Dieter.

Hank's attention was caught by another detail. “Milos is coming here?”

“Yes, it took a bit of persuasion, but since Milos was the one who hired the men who committed the crime on U.S. soil and towards a U.S. citizen the Budapest government determined that authority would fall to the United States government and they extradited him into their custody.”

“Well, that makes sense,” Hank agreed, even if the idea of Milos being in the States made him uncomfortable. 

Boris must have read it in his body language because he said reassuringly, “He is being guarded not only by the FBI but also by Caliel's security team, Hank. I promise, you have nothing to concern yourself about. I am taking every precaution to make certain he won't harm anyone.” He reaching out to grasp Hank's left wrist, stroking the sensitive inner skin with his thumb.

“I know, I just wasn't expecting that he would end up here,” Hank explained, shifting uncomfortably in place before letting the feel of Boris stroking him distract him. It certainly took of all his attention.

“At first, I didn't intended to transport him so close as I did not wish to do this to you. While some of my family have been helpful I don't fully trust most those in my family, be they Kuesters or Rateniczs, to see to it that Milos receives the best medical care.” Boris' expression twisted with distaste. “The other half of the paperwork you see on my desk comes from some of the greedier ones who have been trying to gain control of Milos' assents. My lawyers are earning their retainers over the last few weeks to hold them at bay.”

“I understand,” Hank said, his tension leaking away. To his own surprise, Hank found himself feeling more protective of Milos than he expected upon hearing that news, which he really hadn't expected all things considered. For all the horror and fear Hank had felt as Milos' captive, he couldn't help but also think of Milos as a patient. He was a man warped by the disease which transformed him from the inside out, making him unable to differentiate between reality and delusion. Milos didn't ask for that to happen to him. Hank _couldn't_ hate him for it, he may never be happy to be in the same room as him but that didn't mean he wished him ill. Actually, Hank rather hoped that his doctors developed treatments for him to make him comfortable. “I'm glad that you're looking out for him, Boris.”

The astonished wonder which spread across Boris' face made Hank glance away. Although the warm fingertips on the side of his face made it impossible to keep from looking back to him. 

“Thank you, Hank,” Boris said with warm eyes, as he dropped his hand away from Hank. “I just wish that you could have known Milos before the disease ravaged his mind. I knew him when from the time he was a child. I would spend hours with him. He was nothing like the monster you faced. He was kind and full of wonder. He wanted to grow up to be a Smith Crafter so that he could create beautiful things.”

The regret in Boris' face drew Hank in, and he found wishing he could help him, to lessen the burden on his shoulders. “Um... if there's anything I can do, let me know,” Hank blurted out. As soon as the words were out of his mouth he regretted them but only for a moment. Boris looked so relieved at the offer that Hank's regret faded away.

“There is one thing you could do,” Boris said slowly. “This may be too much to ask of you. Milos needs to be evaluated by a doctor and you are the only _one_ I trust. With your Healing Craft you could give a much more detailed evaluation of his health than any machine could do.”

Hank considered his request for a minute before slowly nodding. While he wasn't back to his former strength, his Craft had been returning so steadily that Hank felt confident he would be back to normal withing a few days. “Yeah,” Hank agreed softly. “I can do that for you.” And really, if it had been anyone other than Boris asking him, Hank wouldn't have agreed. 

“Thank you, Hank.”

“Although, I have to warn you that my brother will probably come down here to talk you into signing a retainer with HankMed,” Hank added ruefully.

“HankMed? Ah, you set up the concierge practice.”

Hank looked sharply at Boris. Certain clues fell into place. Exasperated, Hank sighed, “Boris.”

The other man looked very satisfied and not in the least bit surprised, which confirmed the suspicion Hank had as to whom exactly had been spreading his cellphone number around the elite of the Hamptons. Hank was tempted to scold him about manipulating his life. Again. But he was enjoying the results of those efforts too much to really get mad about it. Over the last couple of weeks HankMed was growing so quickly that last time Evan had stopped by they'd had a serious conversation about having Evan move to the Hamptons to be the CFO. Permanently, instead of telecommuting when Hank and Divya needed him on the weekdays and then spending all his weekends putting in long hours instead of enjoying his time off.

“I am glad that you are establishing a successful business in the Hamptons, Hank. Even without me as a patient,” Boris said. “And... I am very glad that you are still here in Shadow Pond. I thought – I dreaded to think that I would return and find that you had left before I had a chance to talk with you again.”

“Yeah? What did you want to talk about?” asked Hank.

“A lot of things,” Boris said. “I have come to realize that I may have been hasty in my estimation of the dangers posed by my family. With access to Milos' computers and paper Caliel's people were able to trace the origin of most of the threats to Milos. It was somewhat of a relief to find out. ” 

Hank's eyebrows went up. 

Boris continued, “And while I would not trust any member of my family with any of my assets, nor would I be inclined to tempt them by declaring any single one of them my heir, I no longer think that they would be a physical threat to me, or to any of those whom I care about.”

Boris reached out picked up Hank's hand. “I want you in my life, even if you would no longer be my doctor.”

Hank tightened his fingers around Boris' hand. He was sorely tempted to scan Boris with his craft to check up on him, but he no longer had permission. “Don't you still need a doctor? You're genetic mutation isn't going to go away, Boris.” And the reminder of what Milos was suffering through highlighted how important it was that Boris remain vigilant with his health. 

Boris nodded, somberly. “Ja, and while I would prefer you to remain my doctor, I want more from you than that. And I know your own ethical standards would never allow you to be both my doctor and my lover.”

Hank's heart surged up. “Yeah,” Hank agreed hoarsely. “I could never do that.”

“I can hire another doctor. I could even find another Healing Crafter,” Boris said gently. “Yet I could not find another person like you so easily nor someone who I could trust as much as I do you,.... as we discussed once, the situation between us has changed. Am I too late, has another caught your attention?”

“No,” Hank said, finding the idea completely ridiculous. He had been as equally caught by Boris' orbit. The idea that he would started dating someone after their kiss in Budapest... no, that wasn't going to happen. It couldn't have happened until he'd had a chance to speak to Boris again. “And you're right, our circumstances are different now.” Hank tightened his hand on Boris' own. He smiled, tilting his head to the side. “So, if you're willing to give this a shot, I'm up for trying.”

Boris' eyes glowed with pleasure, as if they were powered by Craft-light.

This time, Hank was the one who moved first and he kissed him.

*-*-*-*

There was something deeply satisfying about waking up beside someone, especially someone you trusted, admired and respected, _and_ who also felt the same for you.

Maybe Hank should have been more hesitant to throw himself into another serious relationship after ending his engagement with Nikki. After all the day that would have been his wedding day only passed by less than a month ago. But he was too drawn to Boris, too fascinated by his complexity and his obviously good heart that he tried so much to hide behind a cold mask. 

Maybe under different circumstances, in another life, they would never have done anything about their mutual attraction.

Hank was glad that in this life was different enough that wasn't what happened. 


	6. Epilogue

*-*-*-*Epilogue*-*-*-*

“You can still change your mind if you want to Hank,” Boris offered, as they approached the door to Milos' combination cell and hospital room which the FBI had provided. It was guarded by two security specialists which Boris had hired. Milos was being kept in a federal holding facility but Boris had managed to get permission to add his own men to raise the security around his cousin.

Hank still didn't know how Boris managed that trick.

“I appreciate that, Boris,” Hank said quietly. “But Milos is a patient of HankMed, and as Evan keeps telling me we have to build, not reduce, our customer base,” he added dryly. Although, Evan had been the first to yell at him when Hank broke the news that Boris has asked him to be Milos' doctor. His brother hadn't been happy at all and only really stopped shouting when Hank had reminded him that HankMed was still a fledgling medical practice and they could hardly turn away a hefty retainer on a whim. Evan had grumbled for hours, even when Hank had reassured him that Boris – and Boris' security – would be with him, it had hardly made a dent in Evan's pissed off mood. This morning when Hank left, after stopping by the guest house to have breakfast with his brother, Evan seemed to finally grudgingly accept the idea that Hank would be taking care of his kidnapper. Yet he also made Hank promise to let him know the _second_ he was done and away from Milos.

Hank paused outside the holding cell door, glancing at Boris. “You don't have to come in with in, you know.”

“I don't plan on leaving the two of you alone,” Boris said mildly. Hank arched his eyebrows. “For my own peace of mind,” he explained. “And your brother's.”

Hank groaned. _Damn it, Evan._

“He was very insistent.”

“Okay, okay,” Hank said, even as he wondered whether he should yell or thank his brother. Hank looked away from Boris, took a deep fortifying breath, nodded at the guards, and pushed open the door. Hank hesitated only for a moment before he stepped forward. The feeling of rot given off by Milos was a like a miasma, filling the room with a choking thickness. He didn't know if it was because the feeling of rot had grown stronger or if his Craft's increased sensitivity was to blame but Hank found it difficult for his craft-senses to feel anything else. Even Boris, who walked into the room by his side, felt muffled instead of radiating his usual effervescent bio-energy.

Surprisingly, Milos was asleep, laying back on a hospital bed which was inclined upwards. He was wearing a white hospital gown. Yet as Hank stepped further into the holding room, Milos' eyes snapped open and he sat up. At once, his eyes locked on Boris. A snarl grew on his lips and rage twisted his face. 

“Boris, I told you, I did not want to see you again!” Milos shouted. “Get out!”

“I'm afraid you no longer get a say in such things, Milos,” Boris said firmly.

Milos sneered and his eyes flickered before locking on Hank. His eyes widened before his entire expression shut down. 

“Hello, Milos,” Hank said quietly. He took several steps forward, stopping only just out of grabbing range, stretching out his craft-senses. After a moment, he frowned. He was getting some strange signals from his craft-senses. It felt like his Craft was being drawn to Milos, so much so that it felt like Hank was conducting a deep scan of Milos instead of a light surface scan. But that shouldn't be possible when Hank wasn't in direct contact with Milos. After a moment, Hank put his concern aside. Since Budapest his Craft power had been acting strange as he began to gain it back, such as feeling more sensitive and faster. Maybe, this was just another one of those changes that he hadn't noticed until now.

Milos stared at Hank for several seconds. Abruptly, he jerked his gaze away and glared hotly at Boris. His entire expression was ugly. “Did he succeed in making you more of the elixir? Did you bring him here just to gloat that you are immortal and I am _dying,_ Cousin Boris?” he spat out, acid-toned. 

“Neit, of course not, Milos,” Boris sighed, and he rubbed at his eyes, looking tired. “As I have told you before there is no elixir, the Count of St. Germain is a fairytale,” he added wearily, sounding like he had repeated those lines before, so much so that he had lost count.

“Liar!”

Hank shot Boris a concerned look. Boris had told him how hard it was for him to deal with Milos' delusions, especially his anger over Boris keeping the 'cure' to himself. Milos had been someone who Boris had once been close to, this Milos was so much a stranger that they might as well have never known each other before. And that was without even taking into account how personally Boris took the fact that Milos was suffering from their shared family genetic disease. Piled onto of that was also Boris' guilt over leaving his younger cousin to his own devices for so long that he had never learned of how sick Milos had been getting until it was too late.

There was a reason that Hank had offered him the choice to avoid facing Milos again. Boris was always emotionally wrung out after he visited Milos.

“Milos,” Hank said, interrupting Milos' rant against Boris. “Boris asked me here to check up on you. He's hired me to be your doctor.”

“No, that's not true, is it, Healer Lawson?” Milos insisted. “Tell me the truth. He brought you here to kill me. To keep quiet the truth of the elixir. You are here to help him keep his secrets! Why else would he have me under his personal guards? Why else am I being kept from other prisoners?” 

Hank considered him. It was clear that nothing Boris or he could say which would break through Milos' paranoia. He was too far gone in his delusion. “Not, that's not what I'm here for. I'm here to help,” he said anyway. And before Milos could react, Hank wrapped his right hand around Milos' wrist. 

Sinking his craft-senses into Milos' body felt like plunging into a murky ocean. One which had been polluted and choked with trash. The ocean still had life, there were still a few pockets which were clear and healthy, yet the majority of it was dying. The sickness was too far spread. For a long moment, Hank floated in this dying ocean and desperately wished he could do something to fix it. That he could come up with a way to fix this problem. 

Maybe it was because he had such a great success last time he tried it, but Hank found himself thinking that this was a problem that could really use his Talent. He only hesitated a moment before he merged his powers together. Then Hank's power surged outwards like bolts of burning clean white light which then split into thinner filaments until it was touching every single part of Milos. Initially it was struggle. Milos' sick body fought the healing energy. But Hank had always been stubborn, and forced his concentration against the resistance until it broke, and Hank's Craft and Talent surged forwards, drawing away so much of Hank's energy he didn't know how he managed not to run dry. But he couldn't stop yet, Hank could feel it as his power found every health problem Milos was suffering under, from bowing bones to misfiring neurons, until he was able to completely restore Milos to what he had been before a quirk of DNA started affecting him. Hank's Craft and Talent went into every single cell and turned off the mutation, returning it to hibernation.

“Ah,” Hank gasped, trying desperately to get air. He staggered away from Milos, his knees nearly giving out.

Boris caught him under his right arm, keeping Hank from collapsing. “Hank, what is it? What's wrong?”

On the hospital bed, Milos stared at them both in confusion. “What is going on? Where am I?” He inhaled sharply as his eyes widened with understanding. “No, that's not true-- I would not--” His eyes widened even further in horror. “Boris... did I kidnap Healer Lawson? Tell me that's not true.” Milos tried to sit up only to be yanked down by the chains handcuffing him to the bed-frame. The look of horror on his faced then mixed with startled realization. “No, no... it can't be true.”

Confused, Boris stared at Milos over Hank's shoulder. “Hank-- Hank what did you do?”

Hank stared at Milos, stunned by the proof of what he'd done. Milos was lucid. Milos was more than lucid. Hank had _healed_ him. 

Hank looked back to Boris. “I think--- I think I healed him, of _everything.”_ Hank swallowed, shaken by the idea of what that meant. He had done something that was impossible, something that he shouldn't have been able to do. Something that no Healer could do. Something that should have _killed_ him for even trying. “And I don't know how I did it.”

Boris looked at Hank and then at Milos in disbelief. 

“He saved me from the curse,” Milos whispered. His horror at the memories at what he had done waned away as he stared at Hank with wonder filled eyes. “So you were the source of the cure after all.”

_End_

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/JadeDragoness/media/Magic%20is%20Rarely%20the%20Solution/Cover2.jpg.html)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, I have to admit that this ran away from me. I had thought it would top off at 15,000 words but clearly I got too sucked into the world building. And considering I probably could have kept writing for an additional 15,000 words if the deadline for the Big Bang hadn't arrived I suspect I will be revisting this 'verse again some day.
> 
> Now with an additional awesome graphic (found below) which I totally take as a b-day prezzie because that's when I got it (as a total coincidence) by [Maashellee ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Maashellee/pseuds/Maashellee).
> 
> [](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/JadeDragoness/media/Magic%20is%20Rarely%20the%20Solution.jpg.html)  
> 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Magic is Rarely the Solution (Art)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1475419) by [MistressKat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressKat/pseuds/MistressKat)




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